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'•ii' — N*._, 




Light in the Darkness: 


A STORY OF THE FRANCO-GERMAN WAR. 


TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN 


BY 

ALICE F. BURK. 



LUTHERAN PUBLICATION SOCIETY. 
1883. 


'O-Z.'b 



Copyright, 1883, 

BY THE 

LUTHERAN PUBLICATION SOCIETY. 


Westcott & Thomson, 
Stereotypers and L'tectrotyPers, Philada, 




CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER I, 

My Home 5 

CHAPTER TL 

My Mother^s Legacy 18 

CHAPTER III. 

Unwelcome Guests * ... * 39 

CHAPTER IV. 

I Find a Friend , . 62 

CHAPTER V. 

My First Prayer 79 

CHAPTER VI. 

A Narrow Escape 97 

3 


4 


CONTENTS. 


My Bible . , . 

CHAPTER VII. 

ii 8 

The Rescue . . 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Sorrow . . . . 

CHAPTER IX. 

Karl Erhardt . 

CHAPTER X. 

178 

Conclusion . . . 

CHAPTER XI. 


Light in the Darkness. 


CHAPTER I. 

MV HOME, 

T en years have passed since like a rush- 
ing river the German army swept over 
France. Ten years ! And still the terrible 
scenes of that war stand out as clearly be- 
fore my eyes as if I had seen them yester- 
day. 

I was at that time a girl of thirteen years, 
but I have seen much blood flow, have 
watched many eyes grow dim in death. 
How many tears I shed and how I trem- 
bled when the thunder of the cannon and 

the clash of arms sounded in my ears ! Oh, 
1 * 6 


6 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


the war, the war ! My heart still pulsates 
more quickly when I recall some of its 
scenes. 

And yet I am impelled to write my expe- 
rience in those days ; for though the war 
has taken from me dear friends and de- 
stroyed my home, once so quiet and peace- 
ful, yet those trials, through God’s mercy, 
were the means of letting the light of the 
gospel shine into my dark heart; so that 
even when the thought of what I have lost 
comes to me it cannot make me wholly sad, 
for my soul enjoys a peace which I can never 
lose. Have I been robbed of my father, my 
earthly treasures ? I have a Father in heaven, 
a home above, a house not made with hands, 
eternal in the heavens. How could I com- 
plain and be desponding? No; I will lay 
my pain at the feet of him who can have 
compassion for our weakness and who takes 
all our cares on himself. I will trust him, 


MY HOME. 


7 


for he knows how to make all things work 
together for good. 

Now for my story. That I am a French- 
woman by birth the reader will have already 
guessed. As I write these lines how plainly 
I can see my dear old home ! I see the 
scattered houses of our village, the irregu- 
larly paved streets, the gardens adorned with 
fruit trees, the little old gray church and the 
parsonage covered with ivy and honeysuckle 
— ^the cemetery, too, with its weatherbeaten 
gravestones and rudely-carved crosses. The 
whole picture bears the mark of rural sim- 
plicity. Protected on the north and east by 
the “ Red Hills,*' our village was, in the esti- 
mation of its inhabitants, who were mostly 
employed in the neighboring copper-mines, 
the most charming in the whole world. Alas 
that in this quiet spot the dread roar of the 
cannon should be heard, bringing misery 
and death to our happy homes ! 


8 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


At the end of the village was my father’s 
house, a stately building testifying to the 
wealth of its former owners, but now much 
neglected. The large old door opening on 
the street, with its rusty hinges and worm- 
eaten supports, looked ever ready to fall. 
This door had been long since disused; a 
smaller entrance led into a court-yard partly 
paved, partly grown over with wild shrubs ; 
in the middle of this space the gray stones of 
a crumbled wall showed where once had been 
a fountain. Broad stone steps led into the 
house, a spacious building roofed with red tiles 
and surmounted by an oddly-shaped cupola. 
Most of the rooms were uninhabited and 
gave to the rats and mice uncontested lodg- 
ing. On the south side the terraced garden 
was a picture of desolation; grass, vegeta- 
bles, flowers, all grew in wild luxuriance. 
Behind the garden a narrow path led near- 
ly perpendicularly down to a brook whose 


MY HOME. 


9 


waters rushed over the stones of their rocky 
bed to seek a hiding-place in the shadow of 
the woods and hills that rose on each side. 

How dearly I loved this place in the bright 
days of childhood ! Now every point is 
linked with some sad remembrance. The 
house, with its stone steps and its narrow 
windows ; the honeysuckle on the garden 
wall ; the little bridge leading over the Arle 
River; the road to the Red Hills; the par- 
sonage, with the graveyard adjoining, — all 
these objects I see now through a mist of 
tears. 

Ten years ago I was a happy child. True, 
I had neither friends nor companions, but I 
did not miss them. Our household con- 
sisted, besides my father and myself, of our 
trusty old servant Pierre and Barbara, a faith- 
ful woman who had formerly been my nurse, 
but who now managed all the domestic con- 
cerns of the house. These, with two maids, 


lO 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


completed our little family. My father was 
proud of his name and lineage, but as far 
back as I can remember we had been in 
straitened circumstances. Only the good 
management and the strict economy of Bar- 
bara enabled us to keep up an appearance 
of gentility. My father had held a high 
position under government, but three years 
before the time of which I am writing he 
had withdrawn from business to devote 
himself entirely to science. He buried him- 
self in his library, and, absorbed in his books, 
left to Barbara the whole care of the house. 
What thanks I owe my dear old nurse ! 
When she took me — a child only eight 
years old — from the arms of my dying moth- 
er, it was with a firm resolve to be a mother 
to me and to fill the place of her departed 
mistress, who, as Barbara said, had not gone 
to purgatory, whatever the priest might say 
to the contrary, but direct to heaven. And, 


MY HOME. 


II 


indeed, she was always my truest friend on 
earth — a faithful, honest soul, though rough 
in manner and perhaps not prepossessing in 
appearance to strangers. I am looking for- 
ward to a happy meeting with her in heaven. 

So the days of my childhood flowed quiet- 
ly and peacefully along like a gliding brook, 
which, hidden under overhanging bushes, 
continues its placid course. Only occasion- 
ally was there any life in our old house, and 
that was when Stephen, a distant cousin and 
an orphan about three years older than I, 
came to visit us. Most of his childhood had 
been passed with us, and, now that he was 
in Paris preparing himself for college, I 
missed him greatly and rejoiced heartily 
when he came home — as he was in the habit 
of saying — for his holidays. He was a tal- 
ented, bright boy, somewhat wild and mis- 
chievous, perhaps, but with a good and no- 
ble character. My father loved him as a 


12 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


dear son, and I looked upon him as my 
brother; we shared our games, our joys and 
our sorrows, and there was a decided void 
in my life when, at the age of twelve, he was 
sent to the great city to obtain the necessary 
training for his future career — that of a law- 
yer. Six months before he left us my mother 
died, and I was very lonely; as I have said, 
it was only during Stephen's holidays that 
brightness came into my life. My father 
kept himself more and more in his library; 
so that I was left to myself until the day 
when he sent me, by Barbara's advice, to the 
convent school. Here I remained for three 
years, enjoying the instruction of the sisters 
and going home from time to time to find 
my father behind his books. Although he 
always met me with kindness, yet his absent 
manner repelled me more and more. Often 
I did not see him except at our simple meals, 
and then he would be so deep in thought as 


MY HOME. 


13 


4 


to take no notice of me. How I longed for 
a token of his love ! How often I stood 
before tlie door of his study not daring to 
enter! How often I followed his steps as 
he walked up and down the garden, hoping 
to receive some kind word or a tender look ! 

The last of the three years appointed for 
my education I passed uninterruptedly at 
the school. During this time I did not 
once see my father, and the few lines which 
I received from him did not satisfy the crav- 
ing for love in my heart. But at the end 
of the term he suddenly appeared at the 
convent to take me home, and what a re- 
markable change showed itself in his man- 
ner toward me! He told me he had just 
recovered from severe illness, and, indeed, 
the traces of it were only too visible. The 
flame of filial love, so long held back by his 
cold demeanor, burst out to a bright blaze in 

my heart. The loneliness of the convent, 
2 


14 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


the associating exclusively with older per- 
sons, had given me a gravity which made me 
seem five or six years older than I really was. 

My father told me he had been wishing 
most longingly to have me with him during 
the remaining years — perhaps days — of his 
life. What did I hear? A feeling of hap- 
piness such as I had never felt before thrilled 
my heart. My father wished my service, my 
care, in his old age! My tears and kisses 
betrayed to him my gladness at his tender 
words. 

We received a joyful welcome from Bar- 
bara. At least ten times she assured me 
that I was the image of my mother, which 
assertion the silent Pierre confirmed by a 
dignified nod of the head. So I was again 
in my dear old home, where my days passed 
quietly and peacefully. 

My father’s health did not improve rap- 
idly, and he began to look like an old man. 


MY HOME. 


15 


The greater part of the day he spent, as 
formerly, in his study, but it did not disturb 
him when I took my work or a book and 
went in to sit with him. Sometimes I per- 
suaded him to a walk through the garden to 
admire the flowers, which were entrusted to 
my especial care. Sometimes I induced him 
to climb with me the Red Hills ; and here, 
on the fresh, airy heights, my father and 
I had many pleasant talks. He told me 
about his early life, about the outside world, 
which he pictured for me in glowing colors. 
I learned, too, that he had devoted a great 
part of his life to the improvement of the 
human race and had worked hard for the 
realization of his ideas, but so far had re- 
ceived nothing but ingratitude and disap- 
pointment, and even scorn and derision. He 
also confided to me that he had for years 
been engaged in writing a large work from 
which he promised himself the most blessed 


1 6 LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 

results. I devoted to him all my time now, 
while, as his eyesight began to fail, I wrote 
at his dictation or read to him passages from 
books of reference. My father never spoke 
of his religious views and never hindered 
my attendance at church, yet I knew he 
called himself a free-thinker. He believed 
in a higher Being — a Creator : that was all. 
As for me, I observed with strict conscien- 
tiousness the precepts of our good old vil- 
lage priest, Pere La Fontaine, but beyond 
the present life I knew little. Why did not 
my father go to mass and confession? I 
wondered; but when I asked Barbara, she 
made the sign of the cross and answered 
only with a deep sigh. Yet this did not 
trouble me much. I was happy in the con- 
sciousness of his love. 

I had no other companions, for my father, 
though so poor, would never allow me to 
associate with the village children. True, I 


MY HOME. 


17 


sometimes visited the cottages of the poor, 
but generally I took my walks in the neigh- 
boring woods and dreamed of happy days 
in the future which my father had pictured 
for me. 

2* B 


CHAPTER II. 

MV MOTHERS S LEGACY, 

I T was a beautiful morning in early spring. 

Standing at an open window, I looked 
thoughtfully out at the little village shut in 
between two high mountains, at the gray 
church and at the white stone that covered 
my mother’s grave ; and, looking at that grave, 
I felt sad that instead of enjoying with me 
the sweet flowers, or listening to the song 
of the birds and the humming of the insects, 
she was shut out from this beautiful w^orld 
and lying in that cold, desolate earth. Must 
one go through purgatory, I wondered, to be 
purified from sin ? Barbara had assured me 
that my mother was too pure and spotless to 

need purgatory, but she would be welcomed 
18 


MY mother’s legacy^ 


19 


by the Virgin without delay, and by her in- 
tercession could come before her holy Son ; 
but I could not understand it. 

I was especially disquieted by the remem- 
brance that during the last months of her 
life my mother had not gone to mass, much 
to the displeasure of our priest. And yet 
Barbara said she was not in purgatory, but 
in heaven, whatever the priest might say. 

But heaven was so far off, so strange — 
God, a stern judge; and I had never earn- 
estly tried to keep his commandments : could 
I enter heaven and see again the face of my 
beloved mother ? 

In vain I sought to drive away these pain- 
ful thoughts ; the last days of my mother 
vividly came before me. I clearly remember- 
ed that the priest made frequent visits. He 
was very different from the kind Fere La 
Fontaine, who preached to our people now. 
I can see yet this man with the cold, stern 


20 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


features and the hollow, deep-set eyes ; and 
whenever he came into my mother's room, 
her face would grow deadly pale and seem to 
me to wear a despairing, hopeless expression. 
What he said to her I never knew, for I was 
always obliged to leave the room at his ap- 
pearance. 

One day I saw him come out of the sick- 
room with a very grave countenance, and 
heard him tell Pierre to go immediately for 
the doctor, for his mistress was much worse. 
At sight of the priest I had quickly hidden 
myself, but as soon as the two men had dis- 
appeared I ran to my mother. What a sight 
met my eyes ! My dear mother lay, pale as 
death, upon the couch, while her pretty 
dress was covered with blood. I uttered a 
shriek, for I thought her already dead. I 
had not seen Barbara in the room, but she 
came forward from the side of the couch, 
and, throwing her arms round me, carried 


MY MOTHER S LEGACY. 


21 


me out of the room. She assured me my 
mother would soon be better, and told me 
we must wait for the doctor^s coming ; then 
she left me to my grief. 

In a few minutes Dr, Duprat arrived ; and 
after what seemed to me an interminable time 
I heard his footsteps descending the stairs. 
Seeing my distressed face, he stopped and 
spoke to me kindly, telling me my mother 
was a little better, but must not be disturbed. 
I read in his countenance that there was lit- 
tle hope of her recovery, but I comforted 
myself with the thought that even doctors 
could sometimes mistake. I passed an un- 
happy night, and the following days were 
made sadder by the fact that my father was 
away travelling and would not be back un- 
tir the end of the week. 

Dr. Duprat made frequent visits; Barbara 
rarely left the sick-room; only I was kept 
out. At last my father came. I rushed to 


22 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


welcome him, but started back with fear. 
Such a look of grief and anguish I had 
never before seen on his face. Without 
paying any attention to me, he went quickly 
up the stairs. I had hoped to be able to go in 
with him, but was disappointed. Weeping 
quietly, I took my position outside the door 
and listened, but a silence as of the grave 
reigned inside. 

Presently I was aroused by the sound of 
light footsteps. The priest, whose entrance 
into the sick-chamber the doctor had pos- 
itively forbidden, crept near, opened the door 
hastily and went in. Then I heard scarcely 
audible, broken whispering, drowned by the 
deep tones of the priest, then the sobbing 
voice of Barbara and sharp, angry words 
from my father. I could bear it no longer. 
I opened the door noiselessly and slipped in 
unnoticed. First of all my eyes sought my 
mother. She was lying propped up with 


MY mother’s legacy. 


23 


pillows, white as marble, and her eyes were 
closed. Beside her, holding her hand in his 
own, was my father, while Barbara, sobbing 
and crying, knelt at the foot of the bed. 
Opposite my father stood the priest. Anx- 
ious as I had been that no one should notice 
me, I could not suppress my tears. Loudly 
sobbing, I threw myself on the bed. Then 
my dear mother opened her eyes and whis- 
pered, “ Leonie, is it you, my darling ?” then 
closed her tired eyes again. 

She lay there still and peaceful. We 
watched her breathlessly. How lovely she 
looked ! The sadness which her face had 
sometimes worn was all gone. Pere Lefevre 
tried to break the silence, but a peremptory 
gesture of my father stopped him. 

Then the dying eyes opened again, and, 
half raising herself, my mother looked round 
on us all with a glance full of heavenly bright- 
ness, and said in a low but distinct tone. 


24 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


^^Gustavus, dear husband, it is all over — 
the darkness, the worry, the fear. My sins 
are great, but I have found forgiveness. 
All is peace, peace, peace ! Light has come 
into the darkness, and here '' — and she drew 
out from under the counterpane a little book 
— “ I have found it all. Gustavus, Leonie, 
dear child, for you also — for you.’* Ex- 
hausted, she sank back, and lay for some 
moments quiet and motionless. Then she 
opened her eyes again, and said clearly and 
distinctly, ‘‘Yes, light — light in the dark- 
ness.” Those were her last words. 

I remember again seeing her as she lay 
robed for burial. The smile which had rest- 
ed on her lips at parting seemed still to lin- 
ger; she looked so sweet and peaceful that 
I could not realize she was dead. They 
buried her under a large tree close by the 
churchyard wall, and we came back to our 
home to miss her afresh at every turn. My 


MY MOTHER S LEGACY. 


25 


father shut himself up in his study, and I was 
alone with my sorrow — oh, so alone ! True, 
the sadness lost its sharp sting a little when 
Stephen came, in a few weeks, to visit us; 
but I could not forget that death-bed scene. 
What kind of a light was it that made her 
happier in the hour of death than she had 
ever been during her life? 

I went to Barbara for the solution of the 
problem, but she would not, or could not, 
answer me; and when I asked about that 
little book, she crossed herself and said the 
priest had taken it away with other books. 
I would certainly have spoken about this as 
it seemed to me unwarrantable proceeding, 
but shortly after the death of my mother he 
had been removed to the South of France. 
I never saw him again, and after I was sent 
to the convent school the book went grad- 
ually out of my thoughts. 

But on this day, while my eyes rested on 
3 


26 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


the gravestone on which the sun was shin- 
ing, and under which the body of my moth- 
er had rested these four years, the remem- 
brance of the past came over me with a force 
which I could not resist. Now I know that 
it was a stronger power than mere remem- 
brance — an influence mightier than all nat- 
ural feelings. It was the first moving of the 
Spirit of God, whose working is like the in- 
visible wind, of which we cannot tell whence 
it cometh nor whither it goeth. Deep feel- 
ings of anxiety oppressed my heart. Life, 
death, eternity, appeared to me. I looked 
at the charming landscape : here was life ; and 
life belonged to me to-day. I looked at the 
countless graves in the churchyard: there 
was death ; and after death is eternity. And 
death and eternity should one day be my por- 
tion — perhaps very soon. Was I prepared ? 
My conscience said, ** NoJ* Now I know it 
was the voice of God that spoke to me. 


MY mother’s legacy. 


27 


But I was still so young ! and death and 
eternity — did not they belong to the old or 
middle-aged? A fresh grave upon which 
my eyes fell answered me. There lay a 
young girl who only a. few weeks ago 
laughed joyously in the world. I had sat 
at her bedside and comforted her with the 
prospect of speedy recovery, but she gave me 
such a despairing, hopeless look as she cried, 

“ No, no ! I know I must die — I feel it ; 
but where am I going ? All is dark before 
me — so frightfully dark !” 

Cannot our good priest show you the 
way?” I asked, compassionately. 

“ Oh no,” she answered ; ‘‘ he told me all 
will be well as soon as I have received the 
extreme unction. But all is so dark — so 
dark !” 

For several days after my visit the hope- 
less expression of her eyes followed me. 
Now I looked at her grave and shuddered. 


28 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


She had passed through the gates of eter- 
nity; she knew now where she was. And 
then I thought of my mother again, and of 
how she had died : what made her so happy 
when she saw death before her ? Was it not 
that mysterious book? Oh how I wanted 
to see it ! I made up my mind to ask my 
father about it. With this resolve I left the 
window and hastened to the kitchen to help 
Barbara ; for two gentlemen were coming 
to-day to dine with my father, and I knew 
my help would be needed. It was very sel- 
dom that the monotony of our daily life was 
disturbed by such an occurrence, and to-day, 
anxious as I was to ask my question, I was 
sorry to see them come. 

Interested in the same pursuits as my fa- 
ther, they were to him most welcome guests. 
Absorbed in conversation, I saw all three 
walking up and down the garden-paths, 
until at length they went into the study. 


MY mother’s legacy. 


29 


When Barbara needed me no longer, I 
went out of doors, and on through the shady 
woods to the top of the hill. How beauti- 
fully the beams of the setting sun shone on 
the fresh young foliage of the trees, and on the 
neighboring ruins and the roofs of the village 
cottages ! Only the graveyard lay in shadow. 

On my return the strangers were still there, 
and I went, hardly knowing why, into the 
room which had been my mother’s. It had 
not been used and very seldom opened after 
her death. Except that her bookshelf had 
been robbed of nearly all her books and 
contained now only a few volumes, nothing 
was changed. I drew back the curtains, and 
as the rays of the sun, now just above the 
horizon, lighted up the room and the furni- 
ture, covered thickly with dust, I heard again 
the words of my mother : ‘‘ Light in the dark- 
ness;” and, standing there in the midst of 
these reminders of that death-bed scene, the 


30 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


question came to me again, ** Where can I 
find this light?’' Thoughtfully I went to 
the bookshelf and turned over the leaves 
of some of the remaining books; there was 
nothing there but poems and legends from 
the lives of the saints. I could not find 
there the longed-for light. 

I was just about laying the books back 
again in their places when my eyes fell upon 
a little written paper ; it was already yellow 
with time, but in the half-faded characters I 
recognized the trembling hand of my moth- 
er. The words were new and strange, yet 
they seemed very beautiful to me. 

I have still that piece of paper — that price- 
less legacy of my dear mother— and with 
joy I read again the words written on it: 

God is light, and in him is no darkness 
at all. 

‘‘Thou art of purer eyes than to behold 
evil, and canst not look on iniquity. 


MY mother’s legacy. 


31 


‘‘Yea, the darkness hideth not from thee; 
but the night shineth as the day ; the dark- 
ness and the light are both alike to thee. 

‘‘ God is a spirit : and they that worship 
him must worship him in spirit and in truth. 

“ For what shall it profit a man, if he shall 
gain the whole world and lose his own soul ? 

‘‘ For we must all appear before the judg- 
ment-seat of Christ.” 

Farther down, written last, and with an 
apparently unsteady hand, I read this : 

** There is only one sacrifice for sins ; only 
one name by which we can be saved ; only 
one Mediator between God and man.” 

That was all, but it was enough. Surely, 

God had led my mother to write down these 

words for me, and to lay them in this book ; 

and certainly Pere Lefevre did not imagine, 

when he so carefully removed all traces of 

heresy, that so small a strip of paper would 
/ 

make all his work in vain. 


32 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


How long I remained there pondering 
those written words I do not know. A 
sound of steps told me the guests were go- 
ing, and presently my father called me. I 
folded up the paper hastily, put it in my 
pocket and ran to him. I found him look- 
ing weak and exhausted. His friends had 
brought him bad news ; they had been speak- 
ing of the probability of a war between Ger- 
many and France. My father was, it is true, 
a Frenchman, but he had spent many years 
in Germany and had a special liking for that 
country ; and then, too, my mother had been 
a German. 

We talked long of this matter, and, fear- 
ing to disturb him more, for some time I did 
not dare to speak to him of the things for 
which my heart was hungering and thirsting. 
Finally there came a pause, and, summoning 
my courage, with a beating heart I laid my 
hand in his. He must have felt how I trem- 


MY mother's legacy. 


33 


bled, for he turned and looked at me with 
an air of surprise. 

‘‘What is the matter, Leonie, my child?" 
he asked, kindly. “ What ails you ? Why 
this trembling ? Are you afraid of the 
war?" 

The extraordinary tenderness of his tones, 
the warm pressure of his hand, gave me 
courage, and I answered: 

“ No, no, dear papa : I have something to 
ask you, and fear to give you pain. Yet I 
must say it. Will you not tell me some- 
thing about my mother?" 

I saw that my question agitated him, and 
his hand pressed mine convulsively. But 
the ice was broken, and with tears I told 
him all that I had been thinking during the 
day. 

When I had finished, he remained for sev- 
eral minutes perfectly quiet ; then he drew 
me to him and pressed me closely to his 


34 LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 

heart, while his tears mingled with mine. 
At last he released me, and, opening his 
coat, showed me a little case fastened to a 
chain which he wore around his neck. 

In a moment I had opened it. There was 
the portrait of a lovely young lady whom I 
recognized immediately as my mother, al- 
though the sweet pale face which I remem- 
bered was only a shadow of that which the 
picture represented. Yet I knew it was of my 
mother. I looked long at the picture. What 
a serene expression the charming face had ! 
How smilingly and fearlessly the eyes looked 
out on the world ! What had caused such a 
change, which had come between the time 
when this picture was taken and that when 
the grave closed over her? 

A painful sigh from my father disturbed 
my reverie. 

‘‘Yes, Leonie; an inward sorrow early 
destroyed your mother’s life,” he said. “You 


MY mother’s legacy. 


35 


knew her as tender and loving, but pale and 
delicate; I knew her as a young, blooming 
girl, as the picture represents her. Certain- 
ly you are right to want to know all I can 
tell you about her. It is a sad history, and I' 
have not told it to you before, because I did 
not want to cloud your young spirit unneces- 
sarily, and because I did not know how much 
you remembered of your jnother. Bound 
by a solemn promise not in any way to hin- 
der your religious convictions, I thought it 
best to leave the past undisturbed. But now 
I am glad that the last barrier between us is 
broken down ; it lightens my trouble to feel 
it so, my child. 

“ I learned to know your mother in Ger- 
many, where, as you know, I spent many 
years at the university in Leipsic. She was 
the daughter of an evangelical pastor, and 
at that time seventeen years old. Though 
much attracted by her beauty, and espe- 


36 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


cially by her quiet, gentle ways, yet when 
I returned home our acquaintance was but 
slight. As my parents had long been dead, 
I found myself entirely my own master. I 
determined to remain here in my own house 
for a while and finish a work which I intend- 
ed for publication. I engaged Barbara as 
housekeeper, and lived here for several years 
alone with my books. One day I received 
an invitation from the count of Mornaco. 
On my entrance to his castle I met a young 
lady whom at the first glance I recognized 
as your mother. She had been an orphan 
a year, and was here now as governess to 
the count’s children. She had still the same 
bright, gentle manner, but her face often wore 
an expression of sadness. I wondered if it 
was on account of the death of her parefits, 
or if she were homesick. But not until later 
did I know that the reason lay deeper. The 
second son of the count had been designed 


MY MOTHER S LEGACY. 


37 


for the priesthood, but since he had known 
the gentle governess he suddenly changed 
his purpose and sought secretly to win her 
hand. She too had long felt herself drawn 
to the young man, and perhaps would not 
have rejected his proposals if he had not 
made a condition with which she was not 
willing to comply. He demanded that the 
young lady, who was a Protestant, should 
join the Roman Catholic Church. It was 
a hard struggle. From childhood she had 
been taught to take the Bible as the only 
foundation of her belief : how could she be- 
long to a Church which forbade her to read 
it? But at last she could no longer hold 
out ; from love to him, not from conviction, 
she went over to the Catholic Church. But 
from that time the bloom faded from her 
cheeks. 

“Scarcely was this step taken when the 

storm broke. The family confessor — a strict 
4 


38 LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 

Jesuit — set himself to break the bond which 
united these two, declaring it to be a deadly 
sin to give up for an earthly love his pro- 
posed life in the service of the Church. 
Finally, urged by the priest, the young man 
yielded, took upon himself the vows of a 
priest and placed an impassable barrier be- 
tween two hearts that perhaps might have 
been happy. Without any leavetaking he 
suddenly disappeared. This picture of your 
mother was returned to her without any note 
or explanation of any sort, and she never 
again heard a syllable from him.'* 


CHAPTER III. 


UNWELCOME GUESTS. 

OUR poor mother, Leonie ! She re- 



X sembled a fading flower. Without 
parents, without a home, without shelter, 
what should she do ? She could no longer 
remain at the castle. I offered her my house, 
and after some months she came to us. I 
had never been able to forget her since the 
first time I saw her, and I hoped that time 
would heal her wounds, and that later I 
might be able to win her for my wife. And 
the time, which I spent mostly in foreign 
countries, quickly passed until the day when 
your mother consented to become my wife. 
Gradually she recovered; and, though gen- 
erally grave, at times she was bright and 


39 


40 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


cheerful. A year later you were born, and 
from that time she appeared to be really 
happy. Yet, alas! this joy was of short 
duration ; I noticed that a secret sorrow 
seemed gnawing at her heart. Her depres- 
sion increased with every year ; her strength 
grew less, until at last it was evident that she 
was hastening with rapid steps to the grave. 
The reason for her melancholy and ill-health 
long remained a mystery to me, but finally 
she told me all. By joining the Catholic 
Church she believed she had, like Peter, de- 
nied her Lord, without being able to find the 
forgiveness the apostle had received. You 
can fancy, Leonie, what it was to me to 
know that a fancied sin was killing her; she 
knew that my reason rejected the myths and 
fables which were ruining her life. You are 
frightened, child. Yes, they are hard words. 
I promised your mother, when you lay, an 
infant, in your cradle, that I would never in- 


UNWELCOME GUESTS. - 4 1 

duce you in any way to embrace my relig- 
ious views. But the thought that the cruel 
superstition has robbed me of my dearest 
treasure compels me to say what I feel. 
Many of the biblical theories are not to be 
denied ; there is a God, Leonie : creation 
tells us that; but * what are we to him? 
Enough of that. Be happy, my child ; and 
if it throws no shadow on your path, believe 
what you will. 

‘‘After a time I noticed your mother seemed 
happier and devoted herself more to her 
household duties. But then came those 
often-repeated disputes with Pere Lefevre, 
and this destroyed her strength entirely and 
finally brought her to her grave. Now you 
know all. The book in which she, as she 
said, found light and peace was the New 
Testament. How and when she had ob- 
tained it, or whether she had always had it, 
I know as little as I know what the priest 

4 * 


42 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


has done with it. My dear wife was taken 
from me, and with her the sunshine of my 
whole life. 

In the bitterness of my pain I closed my 
heart against even you, my child, for many 
years. Now I have told you everything, and 
I believe it is well. I have reached a time 
when the end of life does not seem far off. 
However, I hope before that time comes to 
entrust you to some one with whom you will 
find protection and safety ; and when I die — 
Here he lowered his voice and broke off sud- 
denly. 

I threw myself into his arms, and the tears 
which we both wept were to the memory of 
our dear one. 

In a few moments my father raised his 
head and said. 

This has been too much for you, Leonie ; 
I feared it. Go now to rest, dear child. To- 
morrow morning you will be better ; and if 


UNWELCOME GUESTS. 


43 


you love me, do not dwell on the past, but 
live in the present.'* With these words he 
took me by the hand as if I were a little 
child and led me to the kitchen, where he 
gave me into Barbara's charge and left me 
with a kiss. 

When I went to my bedroom I threw my- 
self on my knees by the bed. But no words 
passed my lips : only a sigh for light rose 
from my heart. It was long before sleep 
came to make me forget the troubles and 
the struggles of the day. 

Earnest, thoughtful days followed. The 
spring was succeeded by a beautiful summer, 
but in my heart it remained always winter. 
My father was very kind and tender with me, 
but he never by word or manner alluded to 
the subject of which I thought so much. I 
read over and over again those words written 
by my mother, for I felt they were the words 
of God. I observed the rules of the Church 


44 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


as carefully as before, yet with the instinctive 
feeling that they would bring me no rest 
My mother had not observed them in her 
last days, and I was certain she was right. I 
sought help from our venerable priest, Pere 
La Fontaine, but he, a gentle, kind but rather 
narrow-minded man, knew nothing about 
what was going on in the world ; he could 
talk only about the Church and her saints. 
There was nothing for me, therefore, but to 
wait and pray that God in his mercy would 
show me the light. 

My heart was not the only troubled one; 
outside in the world the storm had broken. 
War was declared. Men were everywhere 
arming for battle ; large armies were march- 
ing hither and thither. The military spirit 
of the nation was aroused ; thousands talked 
of the glorious times of the past and of vic- 
tories and triumphs in the future. Even our 
little village was much agitated ; husbands, 


UNWELCOME GUESTS. 


45 


brothers, sons, friends, stood already on the 
battlefields, and those left at home waited 
with eagerness. 

In our own home these events affected us 
less ; my father had led such a retired life 
for years that we did not even know if any 
of our relatives were in the army. He was 
too busy with the completion of a book from 
which he expected great results to trouble 
himself with affairs that were at variance 
with his humane ideas and bright dreams 
of the future of mankind. It was quite in- 
different to him whether Germany or France 
should will, but on this point Stephen did 
not agree with him. He had come home 
at the beginning of the trouble, and did not 
doubt of the final victory of our beautiful 
France. The young enthusiast would glad- 
ly have gone to fight had not the wishes 
of my father held him back. 

I myself was so much taken up with my 


46 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


own battles that I had no thoughts for what 
was going on in the world. I little dreamed 
how soon those drawn bows would send their 
arrows into our home and hearts ; and before 
the first ball had been sent on its dreadful 
mission something had happened at home 
which claimed every thought and faculty. 
The Angel of Death had knocked at our 
door, and, although he delayed his entrance 
for a time, he threw many dark shadows 
over us. 

One lovely July evening, as I came into 
my father’s room after a long walk in the 
woods, my heart stood still: he was sitting 
in his chair with his eyes closed and such a 
deathlike look on his face that I thought he 
must be dead. I quickly called the others, 
and it was with considerable trouble that 
Stephen and Pierre got him undressed and 
put him to bed. For several hours he was 
unconscious, and many days passed before 


UNWELCOME GUESTS. 


47 


he could move himself, and several weeks 
before he could leave his bed and resume 
his usual occupations. Dr. Duprat said his 
patient had overtaxed his brain by too much 
mental work. Not -the words, but the sym- 
pathizing manner, of this kind friend showed 
me that I must soon lose my father. This 
feeling extinguished every other thought in 
my heart. Through the day I seldom left 
the sick-room, and during the night Ste- 
phen and the faithful, self-sacrificing Bar- 
bara watched with him. 

The events which were thrilling all 
Europe still continued. One misfortune 
followed another, one catastrophe pressed 
closely on the heels of its predecessor. The 
terrible news of bloody defeats and losses, 
of disorders and destruction, were like lead- 
en weights on the spirits of the people. But 
the darker the cloud, the higher rose the de- 
termination to conquer. Though the bravest 


48 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


and the best had fallen, though the greater 
part of our army lay in prison and the ene- 
my with their constantly growing armies 
spread themselves over the most beautiful 
provinces, yet thousands in all parts of the 
country were ready to fill again the thinned 
ranks. Without doubt victory would not be 
denied to our almost unconquerable France. 

By the end of September my father had 
so far recovered that he felt strong enough 
to resume his usual occupations, although he 
was not allowed to leave his room. In vain 
Dr. Duprat warned him Against writing or 
studying: his desire to finish his book was 
so great that he would listen to no remon- 
strance. As his strength decreased and his 
eyesight became dimmer, my time during the 
day was so claimed by him that I seldom 
heard of the stormy events that were occur- 
ring all around us, and at night I slept the 
peaceful sleep of childhood. What troubled 




UNWELCOME GUESTS. 


49 


me most was the uncertainty about the safe- 
ty of my own soul and of that of my father. 
The thought of standing in the presence of 
a holy and just God was so terrible to me 
that I could not understand how my father 
could be so calm, and I prayed earnestly for 
us both that God would in his mercy lead 
us into the light. 

October had come, and still our national 
trouble increased. Germany was continually 
sending fresh armies to lay waste our beau- 
tiful land. Already several bodies of troops 
had entered some of the adjacent cities and 
villages; and although until now we had 
escaped the burden of the war, yet our turn 
was soon to come. 

Late on one of the finest days of the 
month I was sitting on the window-seat in 
my father’s room and looking out dreamily 
on the street, when suddenly I heard the 
sound of horses’ feet clattering over the 

5 D 


50 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


stones. At the same moment I saw two 
German soldiers coming toward our house. 
Surprised, I moved back from the window 
and watched them. Presently they stopped 
before the door and examined the house 
narrowly ; then one of them took out a lit- 
tle book and wrote something in it, after which 
they turned their horses' heacfs and gallopped 
off at full speed. It was all the work of a 
few minutes. Not very long afterward my 
curiosity as to their proceeding was grati- 
fied ; for about an hour later I saw a division 
of dragoons come up the poplar walk toward 
the house. The foremost riders stopped be- 
fore the large door, and one of them called 
out : 

‘‘Twenty men quartered here." 

The designated number remained, while 
the others rode off to the village. A few 
alighted and tried to open the great heavy 
door, but the rusty hinges mocked all their 


UNWELCOME GUESTS. 


SI 

endeavors ; so there was nothing left for the 
men but to use the little door leading to the 
courtyard. I saw it all with terror. Twenty 
men were to be quartered at our house, and 
my father was so weak and sick ! Besides, 
during the last few days he had been much 
worse. 

Some of the soldiers took their tired horses 
into the stable; others rapped at the house 
door — at first softly, but then, as it was not 
immediately opened, with a threatening noise, 
as if they would knock the house down. 

My father started at the commotion. I 
hurried to him and said as calmly as possi- 
ble, 

** Don’t be frightened, father ; it is only 
what we have been expecting. We have 
twenty soldiers quartered here ; we will have 
to bear it as best we can.” 

Again came heavy kicks, accompanied by 
a command to open the door immediately. 


52 LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 

Where is Barbara ? Where are Stephen 
and Pierre? They must be in the house/’ 
whispered my father. 

remember now/’ I said: ‘‘Barbara de- 
clared yesterday she would never allow a 
German to step over our threshold, no mat- 
ter how hard he should knock.” 

“ But resistance will only make them an- 
gry,” answered my father. “I will go out 
to them, or they will break the door down.” 

“Oh no,” I cried, holding him back; “I 
will call Barbara and tell her to open the 
door. I am not afraid ;” and before he could 
stop me I was out of the room and down 
stairs. 

The noise still continued. In the hall 
stood Barbara, pale and in the greatest ex- 
citement. She as well as Stephen seemed 
determined not to admit the enemy. 

“Barbara, open the door right away,” I 
called. “ Do you not see you are only mak- 


UNWELCOME GUESTS. 


S3 


ing them angry? Quickly! Let the men 
in, and give them what they want. — And, 
Stephen, do be civil to them, or else — 

But before I could finish the sentence sev- 
eral soldiers walked into the hall. They had 
found their way in through the back door, 
which the less courageous Pierre had been 
set to guard, and were loud in their demands 
for food and drink. 

As I feared, Barbara would do nothing for 
the tired and hungry strangers ; so I went 
through the crowd of men, who politely let 
me pass, and called to Barbara, who was 
scolding loudly, 

‘‘ Barbara I Stephen 1 For my sake, for 
my father’s sake, stop this foolish resist- 
ance. — Barbara, give these people what they 
want. The noise will certainly kill my fa- 
ther.” Then, turning to the soldiers, I said, 
in broken German, ‘‘The servants will fur- 
nish you with what you need, but I beg you, 


54 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


for the sake of my sick father, to be as quiet 
as possible/’ 

As I turned away I saw my father him- 
self standing at the end of the hall. As 
soon as he had heard the soldiers in the 
house he had come down, notwithstanding 
his great weakness, to protect me from any 
rudeness from our self-invited guests. But 
they seemed pacified by my words; some 
of them even looked at me with kindly sym- 
pathy. I led my father up to his room again. 
Here we listened silently to the noise below. 

Evening began to draw near, and as I 
lighted the lamp I saw with deep concern 
how much shaken my father was by the ex- 
citement. He was leaning back in his arm- 
chair, and I noticed how very old he seemed, 
how haggard his face looked. I seized the 
bell-rope and pulled it violently, for I saw he 
needed a restorative, and I did not dare to 
leave him to get it. 


UNWELCOME GUESTS. 


55 


** Barbara cannot come now, my child,'' he 
murmured. 

Yet in the same moment we heard the 
quick, short steps of the active woman, and, 
shortly after, her tap at the door; she had 
brought us our dinner. But what fear and 
trouble her manner showed ! Hastily she 
placed the dishes on the table and said with 
a vehemence that would not be suppressed, 

** Here I am at last. It has given me 
trouble enough to bring this dinner safely 
before those hungry wild beasts. Bigger 
eaters I never saw in all my life. What is 
to become of us if they stay here long I can- 
not think. They will eat up everything, and 
they drink — Well, I thought they would 
drink up all the wine. If that coward of a 
Peter had only hindered them from coming 
in ! And now. Miss Leonie, they will kill 
your poor sick father with their noise, the 
rough creatures!" 


56 LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 

Softly, my good Barbara,’’ said my father. 

We are certainly in an unpleasant situation, 
and you will have the most to bear, but the 
least resistance will only make it worse. In 
war one must expect this, and we will have 
good cause to be happy if nothing worse 
should come.” 

** ‘ Nothing worse,’ do you say ?” inter- 
rupted Barbara. Can there be anything 
worse than to have them act as if this was 
the meanest hut, and for these gibberish- 
talking drunkards to go from room to room 
and make such a noise and riot ? I tell you 
our house in a month’s time will be emptied 
from garret to cellar.” 

‘‘ Oh, Barbara,” I said, it is certainly sad, 
but I hope they will soon leave us.” 

Leave us’!” she cried, angrily. I do 
not believe that. One of the men, who can 
speak a little French, told me they would 
stay here several weeks, because the men 


UNWELCOME GUESTS. 


57 


were worn out and they were waiting for 
fresh troops before going south.’’ 

** * Several weeks ’ ?’’ I repeated, fright- 
ened. 

“Yes. You see, Miss Leonie, I am right 
to be angry with that stupid Pierre. Now 
he is courtesying to them, making about ten 
bows a minute to those Prussians, as if he 
was their slave* I am delighted with ygur 
cousin Stephen : he has genuine French 
blood in his veins • and if I were a man—” 
A look at my father’s pale face stopped her, 
and we seated ourselves silently at the little 
table, while the tumult, the singing and laugh- 
ing and cheering, went on below. 

My poor father suffered greatly ; his whole 
nervous system seemed to be shattered. 
What was to be done ? I noticed a bright 
fever-flush on his hollow cheeks, and as he 
opened his eyes how feverish they looked ! 
Everything showed great excitement, which 


58 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


Dr. Duprat had told us was especially dan- 
gerous, because it might lead to another at- 
tack. And as I tried to refresh him by bath- 
ing his face and hands with cool water, I no- 
ticed that every fresh burst of noise made 
his lips twitch convulsively. 

I could bear it no longer, and, leaving the 
room hastily, I was about going down the 
stairs, when Barbara came up to me, her 
face fairly glowing with anger. 

*‘You are not going down stairs, Miss 
Leonie ; it is dangerous,'' she cried. 

‘‘Barbara," I said, in a quiet but deter- 
mined tone, “something must be done, or 
my father will die. Cannot either you or 
Stephen beg these people to be quieter ? 
Tell them my father is sick — that he will 
die if — " I could not go on. 

The anger disappeared from the face of 
the faithful woman and made room for deep 
compassion and tender love. 


UNWELCOME GUESTS. 


59 


“ My poor lamb/' she said, “ I have done 
everything to stop them, but it was of no 
use. Some are drunk, and all are so pleased 
with their change of quarters that they can- 
not spare an ear to listen to an old woman 
like me. Perhaps they will soon go to sleep. 
They demand good beds ; well, they may 
hunt for them, then. I have locked the 
doors to the two best sleeping-rooms; the 
others are at their service.” 

“ Then I will speak to them,” I said, sum- 
moning all my courage. “ I am not afraid. 
Maybe they will heed me.” 

What, Miss Leonie !” she cried, holding 
me back. ‘‘What! you will go? Do you 
know what you are doing? No; you shall 
not get a sight of those rude fellows. I say 
you shall not.” 

“ But they were kind to me when I spoke 
to them before.” 

“ No, my child. How could you — so 


6o 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


young and timid — go before such a crowd ? 
No, no 

‘‘Then come with me, Barbara,** I urged. 
“/ go with you, my little lamb ? My be- 
ing with you would only make them laugh 
again. They make fun of my dress: I heard 
them.** 

“Then I must go alone, and I will go,** 
I said, determinedly, turning away. 

“ Oh, and no one will be near you if they 
insult you ! — Holy Mary ! holy Mother of 
God ! protect the poor child !’* 

My knees trembled, my heart beat tumult- 
uously, as I went down into the hall and 
heard the rough voices and strange lan- 
guage. My courage disappeared. Could 
I carry out my purpose? If only I had 
help in my necessity! Without knowing 
exactly what I did, I sank upon my knees, 
folded my hands and said in a whisper, 

“O God, thou alone canst help me.** 


UNWELCOME GUESTS. 


6i 


Little as I knew about God, I believed 
that he is great and good and merciful, and 
I did not at all doubt that he would help me 
in my great need. And, indeed, help did 

come, though from an unexpected source. 

6 


CHAPTER IV. 


/ FIND A FRIEND, 

I ROSE from my knees and firmly and 
with full confidence that I would be 
guided went up to the noisy group of sol- 
diers. At that minute the door opened and 
a tall, strongly-built man in the uniform of a 
German officer came into the room. Seeing 
me, he hesitated a moment, and then, taking 
off his cap and bowing politely, he came up 
to me. At first this new arrival had alarmed 
me afresh, but as the stranger came under 
the light of the lamp, and I saw nothing but 
kindness and good-will in his face, my fear 
vanished and I felt almost as if I had found 
an old acquaintance. 

‘‘ Pardon, my young lady,'* he said, in good 
62 


I FIND A FRIEND. 


63 


French and in a voice which quite won my 
heart, ** but I read in your eyes that the rather 
boisterous behavior of my men troubles you.'' 

“ Oh, sir," I answered, ** if you have any 
influence over the soldiers, if you are an 
officer, I beg you please make them be quiet. 
My father is sick, and I fear this noise will 
kill him." 

‘‘It shall be stopped immediately, little 
one," he replied, while his brow darkened 
at the noise in the adjoining room. “ Wait 
a moment if you please." 

With a quickness which seemed wonder- 
ful to me, he brought forward a chair and 
begged me to sit down. I was so nervous 
and excited that I gladly took it. Then he 
opened the door of the room where the men 
were, and closed it after him. It became 
suddenly still, as the soldiers recognized 
their colonel; then I heard the grave, de- 
termined words of the latter. After a few 


64 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


minutes he opened the door again and re- 
turned to me. 

** Believe me/’ he said, in his winning way, 
‘^that I deeply regret that you and your 
father have been disturbed. I promise you 
there shall be no more noise — at least, not 
quite so much,” he added, smiling. ** It is 
not always possible to restrain my men, es- 
pecially when they have such comfortable shel- 
ter and such a table as they seldom enjoy.” 

** I thank you a thousand times,” said I, 
rising. 

‘‘ No ; you owe me no thanks. The war 
compels me and some of my men to claim 
your hospitality for a few days, and it is my 
duty to see that it is not abused. I must beg 
your pardon for the behavior of my people, 
and I assure you it was not rudeness or in- 
civility, but thoughtlessness, which did not 
let them remember there was sickness in the 
house.” 


I FIND A FRIEND. 


65 


Oh no ; that was not so/' broke in the 
still angry Barbara, who had come into the 
room in time to hear the last remark. ‘‘ I 
told them at least twenty times that they 
would kill my master : they only laughed at 
me and answered me with some gibberish. 
If you had not come, they would have treat- 
ed my little lady in the same way." 

** I was going to tell them about my father 
and beg them to be quiet," I said as the 
stranger turned to me inquiringly. ‘‘ I could 
not bear to see him suffer so, and I thought 
maybe the soldiers would listen to a child 
when they would pay no attention to a 
grown person." 

** I am glad, however," he said, ‘‘ that I 
came at the right time. Procuring lodgings 
in the village for the rest of my men took 
me so long ! But you may tell your father 
that although we must beg his hospitality 

for several days, yet I will try to prevent his 
6* E 


66 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


being in the least disturbed or annoyed. I 
will now — if this old lady will lend a help- 
ing hand and show me the sleeping-apart- 
ments — command my men to retire. Under 
my eyes they will be contented with what- 
ever you give them.’' 

Thanking him again, I ran up stairs with 
a lighter heart. In the voice, in the look, in 
the whole appearance of the man, there was 
something that won my full confidence. I 
had looked up to him as to a father ; I felt 
that we had found a protector in him. 

As I supposed, my father had been await- 
ing my return with anxiety and impatience. 
My story of the last arrival and his kind be- 
havior seemed to quiet him, for he whis- 
pered, • 

Depend upon it, many a noble heart 
beats under our enemy’s uniform.’* 

I took my place on a low stool near him, 
and we sat there silent, listening to the foot- 


I FIND A FRIEND. 6/ 

steps in the direction of the unused parts of 
the house. ^ 

Soon afterward Barbara, followed by Ste- 
phen, came into the room with an air of 
great contentment in her looks. The stran- 
ger had understood how to quiet her grum- 
blings, and even Stephen seemed to have for- 
gotten a little of his hatred toward the Prus- 
sians. 

Barbara said the colonel was in my father’s 
library, and his conduct had wrought such a 
wonderful change in her that she had consid- 
ered it her duty to give him the best room 
and the best bed. He stood high in her 
favor; now she wished to know what she 
should do for his entertainment, and if my 
father would prefer to have him eat alone or 
if she should set a place for him at our table. 
The latter, she thought, would be the better 
plan; for without doubt the colonel was a 
gentleman, and so agreeable in conversation 


68 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


and manner that no one was as capable as he 
to give us a true account of the war. 

My father turned to me: 

‘‘What do you think of it, Leonie? It 
seems to me only civil to show some polite- 
ness to the stranger.'^ 

“ That is what I think too, papa,'' I said. 
“And it will be less trouble to Barbara, who 
has her hands full already, to give us our 
meals together than to set a separate table 
for our guest." 

“Well, Barbara, then give the gentleman 
my compliments and beg him to visit me." 

Barbara, pleased, hastened out of the room 
on her errand. In a few moments we knew 
by the approaching footsteps that the invi- 
tation had been accepted. 

How well I remember it all ! Everything 
connected with that minute now stands out 
before me as vividly as if ten days, not 
years, had passed since then. The fire 


I FIND A FRIEND. 


69 


glowed cheerily in the grate and lighted up 
the old furniture, that had seen many gen- 
erations, while in the background a silver 
lamp shed its bright rays on the weak, ema- 
ciated figure of my father, whose pale fea- 
tures and white hair showed clearly against 
the red covering of his arm-chair. Alas! 
his whole appearance already wore unmis- 
takable signs that he was not long for this 
world. 

The stranger entered and softly came up 
to the sick man; his demeanor, as well as 
his kind words to my father, showed that 
war had not hardened his heart. How deep, 
how sincere, seemed his regret to be com- 
pelled by circumstances to increase the sor- 
row in our house ! 

My father was visibly moved by his words. 
With an effort he whispered : 

“ Sir, you are welcome under my roof, 
whatever be the circumstances that gave me 


70 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


the hbnor of your acquaintance. I have 
spent several years in Germany, and found 
there many noble hearts ; and if I am com- 
pelled to find in you an enemy of my coun- 
try, yet I place the fullest trust in your gen- 
erosity.” Exhausted by his exertion, he lay 
for a while with his poor tired head resting 
against the cushions of his chair. But in a 
minute or two, as if he had received new 
strength, he began again: ‘‘Yes, my dear 
sir, I place my little daughter under your 
protection. You can easily understand how 
I have been troubled for her — my mother- 
less child. Fancy to yourself a house full 
of noisy soldiers and I so helpless. But 
now my worry is all gone. You will guard 
her — will you not? — as long as you are in 
my house, against any ill-treatment or vex- 
ation.” 

“You do not need me to assure you that 
I will not abuse your confidence,” our guest 


I FIND A FRIEND. 


71 


replied, gently. ‘^As long as I am here, 
Miss Leonie will have nothing to fear; it 
will be my pleasure to be a true friend to her 
in these sad circumstances. As for my sol- 
diers, I promise you, sir, that your little 
daughter will need no protector. That they 
overstepped the bounds of decorum to-night 
during my absence is owing to the fact that 
they have been on the march for fourteen 
days, and in their joy at such comfortable 
quarters forgot themselves, i beg you, there- 
fore, to be perfectly easy, and do not be trou- 
bled by a uniform which, alas ! reminds us 
that two neighboring countries have chal- 
Tenged each other to a destroying contest.'* 
Oh no, no !" whispered my father. I 
feel too little sympathy with this unhappy 
war not to honor the enemy whom duty calls 
to battle. But now, my dear sir, be seated, and 
tell me something, if you will, of yourself." 

I will not try to repeat the details of their 


72 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


conversation, although almost every word is 
stamped indelibly on my memory. It will 
be sufficient if I give the colonel's story in 
my own words. 

Herr von Wertheim — for that was the name 
of our guest — was the only son of a major 
who had died in battle. Already destined 
for the army, he had studied at a military 
school, and now, having passed his exami- 
nation just before his father's death, had en- 
tered the service. He had always been a 
faithful officer and a favorite with his supe- 
riors (these facts I gained from others), al- 
though he had never had a great liking for 
his calling. Highly as he honored his father, 
his heart clung to his mother at home and 
his sister. After the last war he had laid 
down his arms and devoted himself to the 
care of his estate. The present contest be- 
tween France and Germany had again called 
him to serve his country. 


I FIND A FRIEND. 


73 


My father listened with great interest, and 
the questions which he put to his visitor 
about Germany showed that he had gone 
back in memory to the days of his youth. 
Then their talk turned to other topics. 

I sat and listened attentively. I had never 
had the opportunity of being present at a 
conversation which was so full of interest to 
me. Every word of our guest showed him 
a well-educated, cultured man, and my fa- 
ther seemed glad to have found some one 
with whom he could exchange thoughts. 
In one respect, however, their views seemed 
to be widely different. All the assertions 
of the officer averred distinctly that he placed 
his confidence in God — that he honored him 
and was his subject. Not that the talk had 
taken a religious character : on the contrary, 
my father seemed to avoid that, perhaps for 
my sake ; but in the speech of the stranger 

there was something that betrayed his be- 
7 


74 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


lief in a living God ; so that I said to my- 
self at last, 

Herr von Wertheim knows that God is 
light; he knows him as a helper and a 
friend.'’ 

^ At first he avoided all allusions to the 
war, fearful of exciting my father; but, as 
our patient seemed to be desirous of know- 
ing all about the late events, he sketched 
with all candor a true picture of the sad 
condition in which our unhappy land was 
plunged. He acknowledged the enormous 
resources of France; he did not deny that 
whole armies seemed to grow in a night, 
like mushrooms, and that the warlike cour- 
age of' the men rose almost to desperation; 
but, he said, this would only prolong the 
struggle. France would strain the power 
of Germany to its utmost, but would never 
conquer her. Disorder, bad management 
and utter ruin had been the fate of the 


I FIND A FRIEND. 


75 


former armies of France, and defeat, dis- 
couragement -^and destruction would be the 
lot of the new. The fight would, he feared, 
be long and terrible; but the raw, undisci- 
plined masses were scattered like leaves be- 
fore the storm by the experienced and well- 
drilled German troops, and it was easy to 
foresee the end. He spoke with generous 
warmth of the bravery of the French, but 
with deep pity for the misery he saw around 
him. At last my father was tired and ex- 
hausted, and our guest, on whom we no 
longer looked as an enemy, needed rest. 
Barbara showed him to his room, and I sat 
down by the fire trying to collect the con- 
fused thoughts that made my head whirl 
and my heart tremble. 

My father was silent, deep in thought; 
probably the conversation had called up re- 
membrances of former days, for after a long 
pause he turned to me and said. 


76 LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 

In looks and manner our guest reminds 
me of my German friend of whose generos- 
ity I have often wanted to talk to you, but I 
have been silent about him because he had 
the same faith and hope as your mother.’^ 

** How, papa ?’' I cried, full of surprise. 
‘‘ The same faith, the same hope ? I should 
think that you — 

You think I would have shared the feel- 
ings of one who was bound to me by the 
strongest ties of friendship,^’ he said, finish- 
ing my sentence as I dared not. We dif- 
fered on the answer to the question, ‘ What 
is truth?’ For all his keen intellect and 
clearness of understanding, with the sim- 
pie faith of a child he accepted the doc- 
trines and revelations of what he considered 
the inspired word of God. Before he died 
he left a message for me ; perhaps it would 
have been better if I had taken it to heart. 
I could not now, if I would : it is too late.’‘ 


I FIND A FRIEND. 


77 


A deep sigh accompanied these words. 
After a little he resumed: 

‘'Yes, Leonie; both those dearest to me 
were one in faith. Those who were present 
at my friend's death-bed could not speak 
enough of his deep, unbroken joy and peace. 
His life, too, was so beautiful ! and as I look 
back on mine it seems all a failure. I have 
leaned on a broken reed, and now that I 
shall soon go through the dark valley of 
the shadow of death I have no staff." 

What could I answer? I had no word 
of hope to give him. He had never spoken 
like this before, nor breathed a syllable that 
betrayed the fact that he thought his end 
approaching; nor had any one else seemed 
to notice it. I sat there pale and silent. 

Soon his fever began to rise, and increased 
rapidly; all my efforts to cool his burning 
brow were useless : his anxiety of mind was 

too great to allow him to rest. Finally I 
7 * 


78 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


proposed to read to him, hoping that might 
soothe him ; at first he refused, saying he 
was too restless to listen, but afterward he 
asked me to get him, from his library, a 
book by his favorite author, and to read to 
him some passages which had often re- 
freshed him when weary in mind. 


CHAPTER V. 

MY FIRST FRA YER. 

HE soldiers had long before retired to 



JL the part of the house assigned them. 
Everywhere the deepest stillness reigned. I 
took a lamp and crept softly down the stairs, 
occupied with my sad thoughts. I reached 
the door of the library, and as I opened it 
with surprise saw a light in the room. A 
feeling of fear came over me, but in the 
next second I had with relief recognized 
our German visitor. He sat before my fa- 
ther’s desk, on which lay an open book, but 
he did not seem to be reading in it. His 
hands were folded, his eyes raised; I saw 
he was praying. Although such a child, I 


79 


8o 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


had from the first known that the stranger 
had in his heart the same light which my 
mother had seen shine out from the dark- 
ness; and now, as I saw the expression of 
devotion and trust upon his face, I longed 
to know more of that light. 

I stood there uncertain what to do. To 
interrupt him seemed to me sacrilege;* and 
so I had just made up my mind to retire 
noiselessly when he turned his head, and as 
his eye fell on me I felt as if I had been de- 
tected in doing something wrong. 

‘‘ Pardon me, my dear young lady,*' he 
said, gently. ‘‘ Has anything happened ? 
Is your father worse?” 

“ Oh no,” I replied ; ‘‘ but he cannot sleep, 
and I have come for a book to read to him ;” 
and, going to the bookcase, I tried to take 
out the volume I wished, but my trembling 
hands were not able to lift it. 

Seeing this, the colonel came to me, took 


MY FIRST PRAYER. 


8l 


the book under his arm, and said in a sym- 
pathizing tone, 

“Your pale face, my dear child, shows 
that such night-watchings are too much for 
you.“ 

“ Oh, it is not always so,“ I answered ; 
“ but my father is very restless to-night, and 
I do not like to leave him.'^ 

“ I fear that I and my men are the cause,’^ 
he said, anxiously. “ Your father appears to 
be in very poor health. You have a great 
deal to bear, I fear, and it troubles me to in- 
crease your burden.” 

These kind words were like a drop in an 
already overflowing cup. I sank upon the 
sofa, and the tears, which had been kept 
back all day, burst forth now. I tried to 
control myself, but in vain. Nature de- 
manded her rights. 

My companion had taken the lamp from 

my hand and was standing quietly before me. 

F 


82 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


In a few minutes I rose and endeavored to 
excuse myself for my weakness, but my 
lips refused to utter a word. 

‘‘ My dear child,'' he said, in his quiet, 
kindly tone, I understand it all. Do not 
be ashamed of your tears. I am very sorry 
to have added to your trouble without being 
able to do anything to lighten it. But there 
is One who can help you. Do you know 
him ?" 

I shook my head, for I could not speak. 

Then turn to him ; cast your care upon 
him. No one ever sought in vain ; you will 
find him if you seek." He stopped, but his 
words had done me good. I no longer felt 
myself helpless, for invisible powerful arms 
had surrounded me. 

The remembrance that my father was wait- 
ing for me brought me back to myself Ac- 
companied by the kind stranger, who carried 
my book as well as the lamp, I went up the 


MY FIRST PRAYER. 83 

stairs, and as we reached my father’s door 
he stopped and said in a low tone, 

‘‘ The Lord Jesus says, ' Come unto me, 
all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I 
will give you rest.’ ” Slowly and solemnly 
he repeated these words, and then bade me 
good-night. I could answer him only by a 
look of thanks : it seemed impossible for me 
to speak a word. 

I found my father a little quieter; he had 
not heard the voice of our guest, and I was 
careful not to mention him. He pointed out 
the selection I should read, but before I 
had reached the end of the second page he 
had fallen into a sound sleep. 

A quarter of an hour later I slipped away 
and went to my own room ; here I thought 
a long time over the exciting occurrences of 
the day, and especially over the words of com- 
fort and hope which Colonel von Wertheim 
had spoken to me. I heard again his words. 


84 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


** No one ever sought in vain ; you will find 
him if you seek.'* I fell on my knees and 
prayed : Lord, I come to thee. Help me ! 
Make me a Christian ! Give me light !" 
That was all I knew to say ; yet I rose with 
the confidence that the Lord had heard me, 
and, seeking my bed, soon fell into a refresh- 
ing slumber. 

The glorious sunshine of the next morn-, 
ing was the forerunner of a whole week of 
beautiful autumn weather. The events of 
this week are written indelibly upon my 
heart. Looking back upon this time, it 
seems to me to have been the turning-point 
of my life. They were days of the purest 
happiness for me — an oasis in the barren 
sameness of my life. 

This beautiful morning of which I speak 
my father seemed better and brighter than 
on the preceding evening ; he had slept well, 
and felt stronger. The soldiers had gone 


MY FIRST PRAYER. 


85 

out at daybreak, and the usual stillness was 
over the house, only slightly disturbed when 
the men came back for breakfast. As they 
were now busy in the stables, I could not re- 
sist the temptation to make my flowers a 
morning visit. 

I was soon down among my garden-beds, 
but they did not receive the usual care, for 
my mind was too full of other things. Foot- 
steps near at hand arrested my attention, and, 
looking up, I saw the German colonel. As 
I was behind a bush, he had not noticed me. 
I saw him take a little book out of his pock- 
et, turn over several leaves and begin to read 
while he slowly walked up and down. 

I debated within myself whether to stay 
where I was or to slip away. Had I cause 
to be afraid of him, after his kindness of 
yesterday? No; I would remain where I 
was. A long while I waited — it seemed as 
if what he read had drawn oflT his interest in 


8 


86 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


everything else — and I began to feel uncom- 
fortable. At last he laid his book on a chair 
near him and let his eyes wander over the 
beautiful landscape which spread itself out 
before him in the dewy freshness of early 
morning. Suddenly he saw me, and, com- 
ing forward immediately, shook hands with 
me, saying, brightly, 

'‘Ah, my little girl ! Up so early after 
such a short night's rest ? Well, I see the 
beautiful morning has put roses in your 
cheeks. But your father: is he rested?" 

" Thank you," I answered. " He has slept 
well and feels a little better this morning, but 
he is very weak." The thought of my father 
so moved my childish heart that I could say 
no more, and to hide my emotion bent down 
to tie up the tendrils of a honeysuckle. 

Colonel von Wertheim assisted me, saying 
with a sad smile that this garden reminded 
him vividly of his loved home. He spoke 


MY FIRST PRAYER. 


87 


of his mother with expressions of the ten- 
derest love, and drew a graphic picture of 
their house and garden, where he and his 
sister Thekla used to spend all the summer 
days; and every word he spoke betrayed 
how glad he was to find some one to whom 
he could talk of his home. With special 
emotion he spoke of the hour when the war 
tore him from the arms of his dear ones. 
His mother was already advanced in years, 
and had laid her hands in blessing on the 
head of Iier son as if it were their last part- 
ing, while his sister had wept bitter tears for 
not only her brother, but her betrothed, Carl 
Erhardt, who had to go to fight their coun- 
try’s battles. A few days since she had writ- 
ten her brother that Carl had been wounded 
in the first skirmish before Paris and no one 
knew anything further of his fate ; she did not 
know if he were in prison or dead. Poor 
Thekla ! Her brother far away, exposed to 


88 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


great danger, her lover maybe dead ! No 
wonder the colonel’s voice trembled as he 
told me all this. 

“ But she has a mother who can comfort 
her,” I said as he paused. 

His face brightened at the thought of the 
dear mother at home, and the clouds cleared 
away from his brow. He spoke of her with 
such warmth that it brought back to me the 
remembrance of my own mother, and I felt 
impelled to tell him her story and, encour- 
aged by his kind words, to open my trou- 
bled heart to him. Without knowing wheth- 
er it were right or not, I told him of my 
fears for my father and for myself — how 
much I wished to possess that light which 
had filled my dying mother with such joy. 

‘‘ Oh, sir,” I said, I am sure you have 
that light : can you tell me where to seek 
it — where I can go to find it?” 

Taking his little book from where he had 


MY FIRST PRAYER. 


89 


laid it, the colonel opened it and read me one 
passage after another, while I listened with 
eagerness. When he closed the book again 
I sat motionless, deep in thought, while tears 
of joy rolled down my cheeks. 

My duty calls me now,*’ my new friend 
said; ‘‘I^must go to my men. Do you un- 
derstand German?” 

"‘A little,” I answered ; ‘‘ I can read it tol- 
erably, but I do not speak it very well.” 

** Then I will loan you my little Bible,” he 
said. ' 

Oh, thank you !” I cried — ** thank you a 
thousand times ! But tell me, please, what 
part I shall read.” 

He opened the book again, turned over 
the leaves thoughtfully, and then said, 

‘‘ No, my little friend ; the Lord knows 
best what you need. He will guide you by 
his Spirit. Turn to him with the prayer that 

he will show you what to read and help you 
8 * 


90 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


to understand. Do not doubt; he will do 
it Do you believe he could lie?’' 

. Who ? God ? That would be a frightful 
thought,” I cried. 

Then believe him, for the Lord Jesus has 
said, ‘ If ye shall ask anything in my name, 
I will do it,’ and ‘ Him that cometh to me I 
will in no wise cast out’ ” With a courteous 
bow he left me. 

I had no opportunity to examine the treas- 
ure he had left with me, for it was time to 
return to my father, from whom I had stayed 
longer than I intended. My brain was in a 
whirl of surprise, astonishment and joy; the 
sudden shining of light blinded me. It 
seemed as if I had come suddenly from a 
dark dungeon into the bright sunlight. How 
I longed for a chance to look at my beloved 
Bible ! But the care which my father need- 
ed from me compelled me to wait. 

During breakfast Colonel von Wertheim 


MY FIRST PRAYER. 


91 


came in ; my father greeted him heartily, and 
the conversation flowed as pleasantly and un- 
restrainedly as on the evening before. But 
nothing was said on the subject of my 
thoughts; and when our guest left us, not 
to return until late in the evening, with alarm 
I heard my father say, 

“ I cannot write to-day, my hand trembles 
so. I will have to make use of your fingers, 
Leonie.” 

Without delay I seated myself at the desk, 
took pen and ink, and for two hours wrote at 
his dictation. Not that I was constantly busy 
all the time ; on the contrary, I noticed with 
sorrow how much less fluent and ready my 
father was than he used to be. Often he 
could not find the right words ; often he hes- 
itated and pressed his hand against his fore- 
head, as if he had lost the thread of his 
thoughts; while sometimes I could scarcely 
keep pace with him. I thought, too, that 


92 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


the style was not so flowing and that the 
ideas were often without connection. 

My eyes smarted with trying to keep back 
the tears ; my hands began to tremble. His 
words spoken to me yesterday I could not 
forget. Yes, it was true; he must, as he 
said, soon leave this earth. But whither? 
There came into my mind the words, If 
ye shall ask anything in my name, I will do 
it.'’ Could I not pray for my dear sick fa- 
ther? Oh, surely I should be heard; Jesus 
himself had promised it. A great hope came 
into my heart and strengthened my hand 
to continue my work. But after a longer 
pause than usual I said. 

Dearest papa, are you not very tired ? 
Would it not be better if you gave yourself 
some rest?” 

‘‘Yes, my child,” he answered; “I must 
rest a little. Put the papers away ; perhaps 
I can sleep a little.” 


MY FIRST PRAYER. 


93 


My heart sank at the tone of his voice; 
he himself appeared to feel that his strength 
was failing. I tried as well as possible to 
settle his pillows comfortably, put his medi- 
cines near him, and left him, at his wish, to 
rest. 

Going to my room, I threw myself into a 
chair to collect my thoughts ; then I knelt 
down and poured out my heart before the 
Lord. Colonel von Wertheim had told me 
of God, of Jesus and his perfect sacrifice, 
and of the Holy Spirit; he had showed me 
that the grace of God was full and free — 
that one could not earn it by works, but 
must receive it by faith as a gift from God. 
Although I could not entirely comprehend 
his words, so new, so strange, so wonderfully 
different from anything I had heard before, 
yet I understood something of their mean- 
ing. I think my steps were really turned to 
the opened door of my prison, but the im- 


94 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


prisonment had made my limbs weak and 
my eyes easily dazzled. I had so much to 
learn ! 

As I opened my German Bible my eyes 
fell on the third chapter of the Gospel of 
John. I was well enough acquainted with 
Old Testament history to understand the al- 
lusion to the brazen serpent. How my heart 
glowed as I read the words, ‘‘ God so loved 
the world, that he gave his only begotten 
Son, that whosoever believeth in him should 
not perish, but have everlasting life 

Not understanding German well, my prog- 
ress was not rapid ; but the more I read, 
the greater became my interest, and I did 
not close the book until darkness compelled 
me. I had read the wonderful story of the 
Samaritan woman at the well of Sychar, and 
the wonderful deeds and words of the Lord 
in the fifth and sixth chapters of John. 

When the colonel came back in the even- 


MY FIRST PRAYER. 


95 


ing, I returned him his Bible, in the presence 
of my father, with hearty thanks. After- 
ward my father asked me what book it was 
I had been reading, and I told him the whole 
truth. He listened in silence; but when I 
added how much I longed to have him take 
Jesus as his Saviour, he interrupted me 
coldly : 

‘‘ Be still, Leonie ! That is enough. In 
youth, while the intellect is not developed, 
it is easy to believe anything. I grant you 
the sentiments of the Bible are beautiful and 
suited to those who receive them in simpli- 
city ; but at the end of his life a thoughtful 
man cannot return to childhood. Believe 
what you wish if it makes you happy, but 
never expect me to share your views ; for 
even if the Bible, which I have neglected 
all my life, were true, it is too late for me to 
believe in it now. So say nothing more 
about it.’’ 


96 LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 

The words of Jesus — ‘‘Ye will not come 
unto me, that ye might have life ” — came to 
me ; and the thought that my father was of 
the number of those who thrust from them 
the hand of love and grace was very bitter ; 
yet I trusted in the love and power of Jesus 
to save. 


CHAPTER VI. 

A NARROW ESCAPE. 

I MUST not linger over the particulars of 
this happy week. Against all expecta- 
tion, my father recovered, and I had the joy 
of seeing him again occupied in his usual 
studies. Our guests troubled us very little ; 
they remained quietly in their own part of 
the house. Barbara still complained bitterly 
of the rapid disappearance of our provisions, 
and prophesied that we would soon die of 
hunger. 

For me these days were bright and cloud- 
less. In the morning I often saw Colonel 
von Wertheim ; after breakfast he rode away 
with his men, and did not return until late in 

the evening ; and when the day's work was 
9 • a 97 


98 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


done, he and my father talked together, while 
I sat by, a silent listener. Sometimes the 
conversation turned on religious subjects, 
and, to my surprise, when these topics were 
introduced, my father seemed glad instead 
of avoiding them, as I expected. 

It was a great pleasure to me, while the 
colonel was with us, to have so many op- 
portunities of reading the Bible. Whenever 
I met him he explained |:o me what I could 
not understand ; so that every day I learned 
more and more of holy things. I was very 
happy; only the thought that our guest 
might suddenly be ordered away mixed its 
shadow in the sunny hours of my days. 

I scarcely thought of the horror that had 
spread itself over our land, except occasion- 
ally when I heard through Stephen of some 
sad event. I lived in a bright dream ; but, 
alas ! it lasted only a week, and was suc- 
ceeded by a dreadful reality. When my 


A NARROW ESCAPE. 


99 


father could spare me, I tried to talk to 
Stephen about those things that filled my 
heart. But I seldom found hfm ready to 
listen. The boy, once so gay and cheerful, 
was now taciturn, sad and out of humor with 
himself and with everything. The friendly 
conduct of Colonel von Wertheim would no 
doubt have inspired him with respect and 
liking if he had not been so bitter about 
the success of the German troops. 

The beautiful autumn weather one day 
tempted me out into the open air. For sev- 
eral months I had not ventured to go any 
distance from the house, though I longed to 
climb to the top of the Red Hill and enjoy 
once more its beautiful view, but to-day I 
could not deny myself the pleasure of feel- 
ing the fresh forest air on my face and of 
feasting my eyes on the landscape in all its 
autumn colors. 

I had no fear of meeting soldiers, for they 


100 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 

were at the other end of the village; so I 
started, and after about twenty minutes' walk- 
ing reached the top of the hill with heart 
beating and cheeks glowing from the exer- 
cise. I did not regret coming, for never had 
I seen the country looking so beautiful. On 
all sides the hills rose as far as the eye could 
reach ; now they were in light, now in shad- 
ow, as the clouds began to collect in the 
west. To the left, almost hidden in the 
trees, lay our little village, behind which 
the clear, transparent air allowed one to 
distinguish objects miles away. Most dis- 
tinctly to be seen of all was the plain, ex- 
tending out in all directions and bordered 
by mountain-ridges. But what did I see? 
Surely some desolating, cruel, destructive 
power had been at work here. The rich 
forests, the sunny fields, the sparkling brooks, 
the blue sky above, everything, was as beau- 
tiful as I had ever seen it ; but, alas ! in the 


A NARROW ESCAPE. 


lOI 


midst of its glory and splendor was the mark 
of the destroyer. 

I looked across the valley to where the 
beautiful town of Arlecourt stood on the 
banks of a little stream, but, instead of the 
white houses peeping out from the green 
foliage, I saw a heap of ruins. My heart 
seemed to stand still, and, trembling in every 
limb, I sank down on a mossy stone near 
the wall of an old fort. It all came to me 
— the anguish, the desolation, the terror, the 
frightful realities of war ; for the first time I 
saw its cruel footprints. And I had been so 
happy ! 

It was long before I could look around me 
again. Suddenly the wind carried a dull 
noise to my ear. I looked up, and saw in 
the distance long lines of soldiers in dark 
uniform, who seemed to be marching. I 
saw fallen trees, also, great heaps of ashes, 
dead horses, broken bridges, while from time 


102 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


to time the booming of a cannon could be 
heard and black clouds of smoke rose in 
the air. 

I began to shiver as twilight approached 
and I could feel no longer the warm rays 
of the sun; but I did not move until a loose 
stone from the broken wall fell to the ground 
near me. Frightened, I arose; and my fear 
increased as my ear caught the sound of ap- 
proaching footsteps and I saw through a 
qrevice in the wall the figure of a man in 
blue uniform coming toward me. But in 
the next moment my terror was gone, for I 
recognized Colonel von Wertheim. 

Oh, it is you I cried, joyfully. 

‘‘Yes, it is I,'' he said, smiling. “But, my 
dear child, what anxiety you have caused by 
your imprudence ! You have exposed your- 
self to much danger. What made you do 
this 

“ It has spoiled all my pleasure, for see 


A NARROW ESCAPE. 


103 


there !’* I said, sadly, pointing to the burned 
city. ‘‘And do you hear the cannon ? Oh, 
it is terrible !” 

He was silent, but I knew how deeply he 
sympathized with our misfortune. 

“ Oh,** I said, “ I could not deny myself 
the pleasure of seeing that beautiful place 
in its autumnal loveliness, but I am sorry I 
came. I have been so happy this week, and 
forgot the distress and misery of my people.’* 

“ You did not know their sorrow and could 
not sympathize,** he answered. “ May the 
Lord grant that you may never learn it! 
When he gives us sunshine, we should re- 
joice in it.** 

“ But why does God allow such things ?** 
I asked. 

‘‘Shall God, the Creator of heaven and 
earth, not do right ?** he answered. “ Look 
up at those clouds and tell me what you see 
there.** 


104 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


I looked where he pointed. Dark clouds 
were massed together, and covered the great- 
er part of the sky. Only one narrow strip 
at the western horizon was clear, and the 
edges of the clouds, gilded by the setting 
sun, formed a great contrast to the heavy, 
dark masses over our heads. 

** Oh how beautiful !’' I exclaimed. 

** Do you see those clouds — how dark and 
confused they are,” he said, ** when we look 
at them from the earth ? But if we saw them 
from above, how different it would be ! And 
so it often is with God’s dealings with us. 
But behind the darkness is light ; our faith 
sees the light on the edges of the cloud, and 
knows that, though hidden, the sun is still 
shining.” 

While we were talking the clouds had 
grown heavier, and as we left the wood and 
commenced to descend an almost perpen- 
dicular path the wind was so violent that 


A NARROW ESCAPE. 


lOS 


conversation was no longer possible. The 
way was steep and rough; so that it was 
all I could do to keep myself from falling. 
When we reached the valley, we were shel- 
tered a little by the hills, but the rain had 
increased. 

My companion had taken my hand, that 
we might go more quickly. But I wondered 
why he was so grave and silent. I looked 
up at him, and saw that his face wore a sad 
expression. Where were his thoughts ? At 
home with his mother and with Thekla, his 
sister, doubtless. 

My anxious thoughts were interrupted by 
the discharge of a gun, and almost imme- 
diately a ball whizzed close by the colonel’s 
head. Screaming loudly, I clung closer to 
him. Turning, he looked intently at a bush 
on our right from which the firing seemed to 
have come ; then he sprang back quickly, at 
the same time pushing me forward. 


I06 LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 

Run, Leonie, quick, or you will be shot !*’ 
he cried. 

But I could not go ; I felt brave enough to 
wish to share the danger with him. I held 
tight to his arm and cried : 

No, no ! I cannot leave you alone in 
danger/* 

Your staying does not make it any 
safer,’* he said, drawing his arm away ; the 
danger is rather increased by your delay. I 
will not move a step until you are gone. I beg 
you to hurry.** In his looks and the tones 
of his voice there was something I had to 
obey. 

It was all the work of a moment. I turned 
away; and though my knees trembled under 
me, my head was whirling and everything 
seemed dark before my eyes, yet I under- 
stood that the safety of my friend depended 
upon my promptness, and I rushed blindly 
down the stony path. Presently I heard an- 


A NARROW ESCAPE. 


107 


other shot. Fear made me tremble so that I 
could hardly keep my footing. Still, I rushed 
forward as if mad until I reached a wall 
which separated the hill from the fields. 

I could go no farther. I stopped my head- 
long course ; and, leaning against the wall for 
support, I looked back with a desperate en- 
deavor to the place where I had left the col- 
onel. At first I saw nothing. Everything 
danced before my eyes ; a noise as of bells 
was in my ears ; my heart almost ceased its 
beating. Then suddenly I saw the tall figure 
of my friend through the mist which floated 
before my eyes. In a minute he was at my 
side. 

* 

“ Thank God you are safe, my child he 
said. 

I could not speak ; my intense excitement 
had been followed by a complete prostration, 
and only supported by the colonel’s strong arm 
could I continue my way homeward. He tried 


I08 LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 

to comfort me by assuring me that all danger 
was past. But my tongue seemed paralyzed. 
I was tired — deadly tired ; and not until we 
reached home did I begin to recover from 
my fright. At last we passed through the 
little gate, and I felt myself safe. Yes, as 
the gate shut behind us and the high gar- 
den wall separated us from the road I began 
to breathe more freely. 

Before going into the house I sat down 
on a bench out in the garden, for the rain 
had ceased. Colonel von Wertheim came 
up to me and said, with a kindly smile, 
‘‘Poor child! You have certainly been 
in the fire this afternoon. How little I sus- 
pected, when I went to look for you on 
that hill, that my presence would expose 
you to such danger!’' 

“But how did it happen that you came 
home earlier than usual ?” I asked. 

“Several reasons brought me back," he 


A NARROW ESCAPE. 


109 


answered. I expected to find you, as usual, 
in the garden, but Pierre told me he had seen 
you on the road to the Red Hill. As I feared 
that some scattered troops might frighten you 
by their •sudden appearance, I followed you 
without thinking that through my presence 
I would bring you into danger.’’ 

‘‘You are very kind,” I said. “ But what 
do you think ? Who could have fired those 
shots at us ? Was he a — The shot came 
from that grove, and I fear it was that old — ” 

“ Stop ! Tell me nothing,” he interrupted. 

“ But why ?” 

“You forget that I am a German officer. 
If I knew the offender, you know what my 
duty would be.” 

Yes, I knew it, and so I was silent; but I 
was sure he had not forgotten the story I 
had told him of poor old Jacques, the char- 
coal-burner, whose hut lay just behind that 

group of trees, and whose two sons had fall- 
10 


no 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


en in the battle of Worth. Since the day 
when the old man had heard the dreadful 
news he was conscious of but one thought — 
to revenge himself on the Germans. It was 
not hard, therefore, to guess whose hand had 
fired those shots. 

‘‘ But he fired a second time,'' I said ; you 
were not hurt, were you ?" 

“Thank God, no," he answered. “The 
first shot came very close, but the second 
was aimed better. Look here and he 
took off his cap and showed me where the 
ball had made a hole through it. 

My cheeks grew pale ; I could not speak. 
Only a half inch more and — Oh, the 
thought was too dreadful ! 

For a time nothing was said ; then my 
friend resumed, 

“ So you see how necessary it was for me 
to make you leave me. It has been a day 
of experiences, for this ball was not the 


A NARROW ESCAPE. 


Ill 


only cause of my anxiety for you and your 
father. Though I have been sorry to in- 
crease your trouble by having my men quar- 
tered here, I have the pleasure of knowing 
that I have been able to shield you some- 
what. But I have been ordered now to leave 
your house to-morrow.’' 

‘‘ What ! To-morrow !” I cried, in dismay. 

“Yes,” he answered. “You may have 
seen from the top of the hill how the valley 
was filled with soldiers ; they are ordered to 
the south. To-morrow, before daybreak, we 
are to follow them.” 

I had certainly been wishing, for my fa- 
ther’s sake, that the troops would leave our 
village ; but to separate so suddenly from my 
friend, to whom I owed so much, was hard 
• — very hard. Tears filled my eyes and rolled 
in great drops down my cheeks. 

“ Do not be frightened, child,” the colonel 
said, while his own voice trembled. 


II2 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


But how can I help it ?” I said. I feel 
what you have been tp me this week : you 
have showed me the light, led me to Jesus ; 
and now you are going into danger — per- 
haps to death. I will be alone, and there is 
nobody to help me.’' 

I praise the Lord that he has allowed 
me to lead you to him, and I know that he 
who has begun a good work in you is able 
to carry it on. I hope to see you again un- 
der pleasanter circumstances ; if not, we will 
meet in heaven. Trust in the Lord ; he will 
never leave you, never forsake you.” 

But I will forget,” I said ; I have no 
Bible.” 

‘‘ He will care for that too. I would glad- 
ly leave you mine, but it is a present from 
my dear mother. But I hope to be able to 
get you a French Bible. Be patient for a 
few days. But now another thing : you re- 
member that I advised your father to go to 


A NARROW ESCAPE. II3 

my home during these troublous times, and 
offered to furnish him with a passport. But 
I saw it was useless to try to persuade him ; 
he is resolved not to leave home, but you, 
my poor child — if that which we fear for 
your father should happen, will you not with 
your servant go to my mother ? How glad 
my sister would be ! I have told them about 
you, and you will be sure to receive a hearty 
welcome.” 

** But my father is so much better,” I an- 
swered. 

He does seem so, and from my heart I 
hope that you will not need to accept my 
proposal ; but it is best to be prepared. 
And I beg you not to leave the garden 
again, for to-day you have seen how dan- 
gerous it is.” 

‘‘Will you not be exposed to danger?” I 
asked. 

‘A soldier does not think of danger,” he 

10* H 


1 14 LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 

said, smiling. “ Besides, my life is in the 
hands of the Lord.” 

‘‘Are you sure, then, that God will pro- 
tect you from , being wounded or from dy- 
ing?” ^ 

“ Oh no ! I do not know how or when 
my Father will send for me, but I know that 
nothing can rob me of the life that is hid 
with Christ in God.” With these words he 
left me and went to talk for a while with my 
father. 

In about an hour I followed, and was sur- 
prised at the change in the sick man, he 
looked so' pale and feeble. I did not want 
to tell him about my adventures, but he 
asked me so many questions about my ab- 
sence that I was obliged to recount all. 
This and the speedy departure of our guest 
seemed to depress him. I was obliged to 
leave the room for a while, and on my re- 
turn found the colonel there; my father 


A NARROW ESCAPE. 


II5 


seemed to have recovered his spirits, and 
was talking brightly. Every allusion to the 
morrow’s leavetaking was avoided, and by 
common consent no sad thoughts were al- 
lowed to embitter these last moments to- 
gether. 

How fast the time flew ! The last words 
were spoken and good wishes exchanged, 
and I was alone and could weep unrestrain- 
edly. A happy week lay behind me, but 
now my German friend was going away, 
perhaps never to return, and the hours of 
my father’s stay with us were evidently num- 
bered. Since my mother died I had no one 
to whom I could cling ; and although my 
father had turned to me in his last days, yet 
I still felt in a measure apart from him. 

I wept until exhausted ; I tried to pray, 
but only sighs and broken words came. 
Finally I fell into a troubled sleep, until in 
the early morning the trampling of horses 


Il6 LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 

beneath my window again roused me to my 
troubles. I arose, dressed quickly and went 
to the window. It was still dark ; day had 
not yet broken : I could distinguish nothing 
except now and then when the light of a 
lantern shone on some object here and there. 
I heard Colonel von Wertheim’s voice as he 
gave some order ; then they went slowly out 
of the yard. I listened until the last echo 
of the horses' feet died away; then I crept 
back to bed, but could not sleep. 

An hour or two later, when I visited my 
father, I found that he too had passed a rest- 
less night ; he looked tired and worn. Ex- 
cept Barbara, who appeared happy to return 
to her accustomed ways, every one seemed 
dull ; the house was silent almost as the 
grave. Outside it was as depressing as 
in-doors. A thick fog rose out of the val- 
ley; leaden gray clouds covered the sky, 
and the wind howled dismally through the 


A NARROW ESCAPE. 


II7 


trees, stripping them of their few remaining 
leaves ; the late autumn flowers drooped their 
heads, as if they no longer had courage to 
resist our cold climate; everything conspired 
to make me miserable. How I longed for 

some one to comfort me ! True, I had the 

* 

consciousness of the presence and sympathy 
of Jesus, but I was still a weak, ignorant 
child, and I had no Bible. No wonder that 
my spirits failed. 


CHAPTER VII. 


MV BIBLE, 



NE morning, after a very unquiet night, 


my father had fallen asleep almost 
directly after his early breakfast. I felt un- 
able to bear the stillness of the room, so I 
softly crept out and tried to quiet my rest- 
lessness by walking up and down the cor- 
ridor and thinking over my happy week, as 
I called it. As I remembered the teaching 
of my friend the colonel I could not but feel 
that I had been doing wrong to yield so to 
repinings and murmurings. 

Oh, if I only had a Bible 1 '*^ I sighed ; 
‘‘ it would give me comfort now when I so 
much need it. As long as I could read 
about Jesus I felt no need, but now I have 


118 


9 


MY BIBLE. 


1 19 

nothing — nothing. Oh, I know it is wrong 
for me to feel so — the Lord is everywhere 
and spoke to me even before I knew him — 
but— 

I stopped my walk suddenly; softly I 
crept down the stairs and went from room 
to room till I came to my father’s study. 
Since the departure of our guest I had not 
entered this room. On the table stood a 
lamp, an inkstand and a book wrapped in 
paper, upon which I saw my name written. 
I opened it quickly and with trembling fin- 
gers, and found the German Bible of the col- 
onel. I saw a piece of paper between the 
leaves, and, taking it out, read these words : 

- ‘‘ ‘ He who loves father or mother more 
than me is not worthy of me.’ I leave you, 
my little friend, my Bible — the gift of my 
dear mother — until I can find an opportu- 
nity to send you another. That the Lord 


120 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


may bless the reading of his word is the 
wish of your friend, 

Conrad von Wertheim.'' 

My head * sank down on the book and 
my tears fell like summer rain. What a 
sacrifice had this kind friend made for me! 
for I felt what it must have cost him even 
for a time to part with his mother’s gift. 
My heart was full of joy and thankfulness; 
I no longer felt alone. As I opened the lit- 
tle book my eye fell on passages which the 
owner had doubtless marked on the last 
night to comfort my heart. I returned to 
my father’s room with a peace in my soul 
which never left me in all the sad days 
that were before me. 

Yes, sorrowful days awaited me. My 
father’s illness increased : the long-continued 
rainy weather seemed to have an injurious 
effect on his health. For several days he 


MY BIBLE. 


I2I 


was delirious, and death seemed very near ; 
then the feeble spark of life that seemed 
almost extinguished revived, and again he 
became conscious, but so weak that he could 
not speak a word. 

It was a great pleasure to me during this 
time to have Stephen with us; he watched 
with me at my father’s bedside and helped 
me in very many ways. I took courage to 
tell him how happy I was; and, much to 
my surprise and relief, he did not ridicule 
me. On the contrary, he listened attentive- 
ly and without contradiction when I read to 
him passages from the Bible. And my fa- 
ther ? I had told him what I had found on the 
study-table, and he seemed pleased, I thought. 

One evening, as I sat quietly reading in 
the sick-room, I heard him sigh deeply, and, 
looking up, I met his eyes fixed on me with 
a look of sadness. I went to him quickly 

and bent over him, saying, 

11 


122 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


Papa, dearest papa, if you would only 
hear about Jesus T’ 

“Ah, Leonie,’' he said, in his weak tones, 
“ it is too late — too late. I have denied him 
all my life ; I could not believe now if I 
would. 

“ Oh, papa,” I cried, “ you believe that the 
Bible is true ; maybe you did not before, but 
now you know it. And it is not too late. 
Now is the accepted time; nozv is the day 
_ of salvation. Oh, do let me at least read to 
you about Jesus. If you will listen to his 
words, so full of love — if you will hear of 
his mercy and his compassion— you will 
certainly believe. Jesus will help you.” 

The thoughtful, sad expression remained 
unchanged as with visible effort he replied : 

“ Oh yes, my child ; read what you will. 
My life has been wasted, my strength is 
gone ; my past is like a shadow behind me, 
my present offers nothing but misery and 


MY BIBLE. 


123 


disappointment, and my future is an unwrit- 
ten page. I have trusted in my reason — 
alas ! a broken staff ; I have rejected God, 
and now it is too late — too late.” 

“ No, never — never too late for him who 
has given his life for sinners,” I cried, while 
tears of joy filled my eyes. ** Oh, dearest 
papa, how I have longed for this moment! 
If our German friend were here, he would 
tell you that the light of God had shone 
into your soul to show you how much you 
need a Saviour.” 

Tremblingly I opened the book and read 
to him the words of him who spake as 
never man spake. I did not know enough 
of the Bible to be able to turn to fitting 
verses, but I think the Holy Spirit must 
have guided me, for my father listened with 
increasing interest ; and as, finally, fearing 
to tire him, I closed the book and wished 
him “ Good-night,” he kissed me and said, 


124 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


‘‘God bless and keep you, my Leonie! 
Sleep sweetly, my child/’ 

That night he was stricken with paralysis. 
At first he could speak only a few discon- 
nected words, but he was able to listen to 
me a little every day as I read the Bible to 
him and talked to him about my dear Sa- 
viour. How much he understood I could 
not tell, but the brightening of his face, the 
warm pressure of his hand when I talked to 
him, and sometimes the motion of his lips, 
as if he were praying, — all these made me 
glad. Stephen was often present, but he said 
nothing. Barbara came in occasionally with 
a face full of curiosity mixed with suspicion. 
Once, indeed, she ventured to propose to my 
father to send for the priest, but he refused 
so vehemently that she never spoke of it 
again. Thus three weeks passed without 
any particular change. Dr. Duprat feared a 
second stroke, which might prove fatal. 


MY BIBLE. 


125 


During these days we heard little of the 
war. From time to time vague and exag- 
gerated rumors of victories, soon followed 
by stories of disaster and defeat, reached 
us. Of the fate of our German friend we 
knew nothing. An indescribable anxiety 
came over me when I learned from Pierre, 
our man-of-all-work, that large bands of 
French soldiers were hidden in the woods 
to fire at Germans riding by ; and in the vil- 
lage there was another band, sworn to kill 
every German they saw. Only the thought 
that the life of our friend was in the hands 
of God kept me up. 

One afternoon, toward sunset, I was sit- 
ting in my father’s room at a window which 
looked out on the road. My father had 
fallen asleep, and I sat there with my little 
Bible on my lap, but I could not read. My 
thoughts went restlessly from one thing to 

another until they came to our late guest. 

11 * 


126 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


Where could he be? I wondered. That he 
was still alive I had no doubt. But I thought 
he might be killed, and that I should soon 
lose my father ; and I remembered how lone- 
ly and. helpless I was. Lost in these sad fan- 
cies, I was suddenly aroused by the sound 
of horses' feet; looking out eagerly, I dis- 
tinguished in the twilight the figure of a 
rider coming toward the house. In another 
minute I recognized my friend. Colonel von 
Wertheim; he seemed to be alone. 

Hastily putting the Bible in my pocket, I 
quickly left the room, flew down the stairs 
and through the courtyard to the gate, and 
welcomed him in joyful tones. He reached 
down to shake hands with me, and inquired 
kindly after my health. 

Oh, sir," I said, it is such an unexpect- 
ed pleasure to see you again ! How glad 
my father will be if — " I stopped, for in 
the joy of my heart I had forgotten every- 


MY BIBLE. 


127 


% 

thing ; and after a while I added : ‘*Ah ! my 
father is very sick — perhaps near death.'* 

‘‘ Really, my poor child ?" he said, in tones 
of heartiest sympathy. “ How sorry I am 
not to be able to speak to him ! for I can 
stay only a few minutes. Tell me about 
him." 

I told him all I could about the past weeks, 
and said in conclusion, 

" You see, your trouble and kindness have 
not been for nothing; he acknowledges the 
truth of the Bible and listens with great in- 
terest when I read to him from it. I think — 
I hope — he is trusting in Jesus. How good 
it was of you to leave me your Bible ! But 
you must not be without it longer ; I return 
it to you with very many thanks." 

" I have come to exchange Bibles with 
you," he said, taking his Bible from my 
hand and in return giving me a copy in 
French. " But how are you, my little friend ? 


128 LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 

You are looking rather pale and tired. Have 
you felt lonely ?** 

Oh no — not since I found your Bible/' I 
answered. But it seems to me I could not 
have lived through all these weeks without 
it But will you not stay with us a while ?" 

No, my child; I .have not a moment to 
lose. I have been sent with important de- 
spatches, and, as my way leads through this 
neighborhood, I could not deny myself the 
pleasure of seeing my little hospitable host- 
ess, if only for a minute. I will send you a 
pass to Germany, for I fear you will soon 
need it. May the Lord be ever near you 
and protect you ! Farewell, my dear little 
one, until we meet again. Our tired horses 
will scarcely be able to carry me and my 
servant through the dark Montville woods 
to Belfort. But the Lord will be with us." 

The dark woods ! Had not Pierre told 
me those woods were full of soldiers? 


MY BIBLE. 


129 


Oh no/' I said ; ** you must not take that 
road." 

But that is the only way." 

‘‘ Those woods are full of French soldiers," 
I cried ; it will certainly be your death. I 
beg you, for your mother, for Thekla’s sake. 
You are risking your life." 

** My dear child," he said, gently, ‘‘ a sol- 
dier must obey; but you know that both 
you and I are under a Captain who says, 
‘ Fear not, for I am with thee.' He has kept 
me before in great dangers, and he can keep 
me now if it is his will. We are under his 
care. And now good-bye once more." In 
another minute he was gone. 

I stood listening until the sound of his 
horse's feet had died away in the distance; 
then I went slowly into the house. I found 
everything quiet there. No one had seen 
the visitor, and it had all taken place so 

quickly that, had it not been for my new 
I 


130 LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 

Bible, I would have thought the whole thing 
a dream. * 

My father was still sleeping, and I again 
took my place by the window, although the 
darkness hid the outer world from my view. 
, I could not keep from thinking of the dark 
woods, for I calculated that by this time 
my friend had reached the Montville forest. 

Suddenly I fancied I heard a dull noise 
that made my blood run cold in my veins. I 
distinguished the short, sharp click of a mus- 
ket; then- there was a pause, while my heart 
seemed to stop its beating, and then another 
shot. This came distinctly from the woods 
just outside of the village. I sat there as 
if stunned, until, by and by, remembering it 
was time for my father's medicine, I rose 
and lit the lamp; but, as I saw my father 
was still sleeping, I would not disturb him. 

I returned to my place. I could not pray 
— could not even collect my thoughts. How 


MY BIBLE. 


I3I 

long I sat there I cannot tell ; at last I rose 
and rang for Barbara. I had formed a des- 
perate resolution. As my faithful nurse en- 
tered I compelled myself to be quiet, but 
she was not to be deceived. 

** What has happened, dear ?’’ she cried at 
her first look at my face. “ You look as pale 
as a ghost. Are you sick ?” 

‘‘ No, Barbara, I am not sick,’’ I answered, 
quietly, “but my head aches a little. Will 
you stay with my father while I go out for a 
breath of fresh air? It is so close here!” 

What I said was true, and yet not true ; 
for I did not dare tell her of my purpose. 

“ Ye^, yes, my lamb,” she said; “the load 
is too heavy for young shoulders. But I don’t 
know : there is something peculiar about you. 
You are sure you are not sick ?” 

“ No, no, Barbara I Only let me be for an 
hour, and do not disturb me. I am not sick ; 
it will soon be over.” 


132 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


But the old woman was only half pacified. 
She pressed me to take some medicine and 
begged me to lie down and try to sleep. 
But, seeing that I was determined, at last 
she let me go. 

With noiseless steps I crept down the 
stairs and into the kitchen, where I found 
Pierre and the two maid-servants. I inquired 
for Stephen, but just as I asked he opened the 
door and came in. He seemed surprised 
to see me, but I carried him off to my fa- 
ther’s study, and said, the minute the door 
closed behind us, 

‘‘Stephen, I want you to do me a great 
favor; there will be some danger in it, but 
I will share it with you. Will you help 
me ?” 

I felt I had touched the right chord, for 
his face brightened: 

“Yes, Leonie; I will do what you want, 
if it costs me my life.’* 


MY BIBLE. 


133 


. I hope it is not so bad as that,” I said. 
** I want you to go with me over the Arle 
bridge.” 

What ! over the Arle bridge, Leonie ? 
Over the bridge at night ? Don’t you know 
that the woods are full of soldiers ?” 

“ I know it,” I said, ‘‘ but they will not fire 
at us, for we are French.” 

** I have heard shooting all around this 
evening,” he went on. 

“ Yes, I heard it too,” I answered. ‘‘But, 
Stephen, I am afraid the kind gentleman who 
was here several weeks ago with his soldiers 
has been wounded by some of those shots.” 

“ What ! Colonel von Wertheim, Leonie ? 
Impossible !” he cried. 

“Alas ! it is only too possible,” I said, “ for 
half an hour ago he rode away from here. 
I saw him only a few moments, for he had 
no time to come into the house. His way 

led through the woods, he said. At the ut- 
12 


134 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


most he could only have just crossed the 
Arle bridge when I heard a shot. Our 
friend may be hurt, and we must not let 
him die.'* 

‘‘ No, we must not let him die,*’ Stephen 
repeated. ‘‘Although he is a German, he 
is a gentleman and a brave soldier. But, 
Leonie, I will call Pierre and he and I can 
go. You must not; trust it to me.” 

“ I know I can trust you, Stephen, but I 
could not wait here ; and Pierre is too much 
of a coward to be any good to you. It will 
be best for you to go to Pere Fontaine- and 
ask him to come here. If he is not at home, 
go to Jules Roche; he is a brave, kind man 
and will help us. Go quickly. Tell nobody 
in the house of this. I will wait for you be- 
low stairs, at the door.” 

Stephen hurried off. 

I put a small bottle of wine in my pocket, 
wrapped myself in a cloak and stole quietly 


MY BIBLE. 


135 


out of the house. The air was icy cold, and 
the moon shed her light over the open fields, 
bathing them in silvery brightness. 

I had not to w^it long ; the priest’s house 
was not far from ours, and soon I heard the 
sound of approaching footsteps. I hastened 
toward them, for I felt that no one would al- 
low me to carry out my wishes unless it were 
the kind-hearted old priest, whose darling I 
had always been. He knew nothing of the 
change in my religious belief, and I was sure 
that, even if he had known it, he would not 
have denied me his assistance. 

Stephen had already told him the circum- 
stances, and, as I expected, he begged me to 
remain at home, with the assurance that he 
would do everything in his power for the 
German officer if he found him. Instead of 
answering, I hurried forward and led the way 
to a rocky path which would the sooner take 
us to the bridge. 


CHAPTER \5III. 

THE RESCUE. 

I T was a lovely night, but my eyes took 
little notice of the beauty. I rushed on 
over the rough path, tiresome and dangerous 
though it was, with such speed that my 
companions could hardly keep up with 
me. Everywhere reigned death-like silence, 
broken only by my own irregular footfalls. 

At last we perceived, at some little dis- 
tance, a dark object, which on coming nearer 
proved to be a riderless horse quietly graz- 
ing. I saw at the first glance it was not the 
colonel's. We looked around us for sev- 
eral seconds, but no one spoke a word ; then 
we hastened forward again. 

Soon we heard the rushing of the Arle 
136 


THE RESCUE. 


137 


and saw its waters glistening in the moon- 
light. Yet a few minutes more, and we had 
crossed the bridge. As I write down these 
lines my hand trembles and my heart beats 
more quickly, but then I was calm and com- 
posed. The broad white road, bordered on 
one side by dark forests, stretched itself out 
before our eyes. 

Just then I fancied I heard a groan, but I 
paid no attention to it, for at some distance, 
far up on the hill, under a tree whose branches 
spread up to the blue heavens and broke the 
uniformity of the road — there I saw what I 
sought. Thither I ran, while my two com- 
panions, attracted by the groan which we 
had heard, discovered a wounded man and 
stopped to help him. 

Almost breathless, I reached the spot on 
the hill where my sharp sight had detected 
a dark figure lying on a bank of moss ; and 

truly here lay my German friend, his pale 
12* 


138 . LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 

face turned to the moonlight. With hang- 
ing head and muscles relaxed, his horse 
stood near him. The animal looked round 
with a low whinny as I approached. With 
a presence of mind which seems wonderful 
to me now, I knelt by the side of the pros- 
trate figure and laid my hand on his cold 
forehead. I thought of his words spoken 
such a little while ago. Was it possible that 
that life, so strong and vigorous, was no 
more? No, it could not be. With a glim- 
mer of hope I raised my head and looked 
steadily at the white, set features. Was it 
fancy, or was that scarce noticeable twitch- 
ing of the eyelids and of the pale lips real- 
ity ? Oh, it was no fancy : he was living. 
With trembling hands I brought out the 
wine and poured a few drops between his 
closed teeth. . And, oh joy! he opened his 
eyes for a second, and a faint sigh came 
from his lips. 


THE RESCUE. 


139 


At that moment my companions came up. 

He is not dead ; he has opened his eyes,” 
I cried as I saw them start back frightened 
at sight of the figure lying at their feet. 

The priest quickly knelt down by the 
wounded man to search for the hurt, and 
soon he discovered a dark hole in the coat, 
near the shoulder, from which drops of blood 
were oozing. 

‘'What shall we do now, Leonie?’' said 
Stephen. “ Down yonder is another patient, 
who, however, Pere Fontaine says, is not bad- 
ly hurt, only weak from loss of blood. How 
can we get them home ? Shall I run to the 
village and get help? Pere Fontaine will 
stay with you.” 

“Yes, as quickly as possible,” I answered; 
“ But first give this to the poor man down 
there;” and into a glass I had with me I 
poured some of the wine. 

While talking I heard the noise of wheels ; 


140 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


looking around toward the direction whence 
this sound proceeded, Stephen cried, 

‘‘ It is the miller Bertine’s wagon ; he had 
to take provisions to Belfort, and he must be 
coming back now.” 

** That is fortunate,” said the priest. Go, 
Stephen; ask him if he will take two wound- 
ed men in his wagon.” 

Stephen ran, and reached the foot of the 
hill just as the horses were turning on to 
the bridge. 

** Would it not be better if you would go 
too, Pere Fontaine?” I asked. ‘‘Perhaps 
they will need your help. Do go; I am 
not afraid to stay alone.” 

When he was gone, I took ofT my cloak 
and as well as possible wrapped it round 
the cold figure by me. The movement 
seemed to rouse him from his stupor, for I 
saw his eyes open for a second and then 
close wearily. I put the bottle to his lips, 


THE RESCUE. 


I4I 

and now he swallowed a few drops. Then 
he opened his eyes again, and whispered, 
Leonie child, what are you doing here ? 
Where am I ?’* 

** You must not speak,” I answered. ‘‘ You 
have been wounded, and we are taking you 
home ; the wagon will be here in a minute 
to carry you to our house.” 

He smiled at me brightly, then closed his 
eyes again. 

In a little while, though it seemed to me 
much longer, the wagon appeared. Fortu- 
nately, lying in the bottom there were sev- 
eral empty sacks, out of which we made 
beds for the wounded men. 

After they had been carried to the wagon 
and made as comfortable as possible, the 
good priest ^begged me to get in, but I re- 
fused, saying I must go the shortest way 
home, because no one knew of my absence ; 
and I remembered, too, I had to prepare for 


142 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


the reception of the colonel and his servant. 
So, while the wagon moved on slowly with 
its precious freight, Stephen and I ran with 
flying feet down the hill. How it was pos- 
sible to traverse that precipitous path at night 
and in such haste seems a mystery to me now. 
Only the thought that we must hurry was all 
I was conscious of ; we neither of us remem- 
bered that there was danger in such haste. 
However, we reached the village at last, and 
while Stephen ran for the doctor I slipped 
into the house by the back door and went 
into the kitchen. 

Pierre and the two women-servants gath- 
ered round me exclaiming at my appearance. 
I had forgotten what a figure I must present. 
My dress was soiled with mud from top to 
bottom; my hair hung down my back in 
disorder. Without cloak or hat, pale from 
excitement, and breathless with running, I 
stood before them. 


THE RESCUE. 


143 


I explained everything in as few words as 
possible, and ran up stairs to my own little 
room. Here I hastily changed my dress, 
arranged my hair and went down to my 
father. As I entered, Barbara was giving 
him his medicine. He smiled at me, mur- 
mured a few unintelligible words and re- 
lapsed again into his usual semi-unconscious 
state, between sleeping and waking. 

I beckoned Barbara to follow me into my 
room ; her sharp eyes had already seen that 
something extraordinary had occurred, and 
as quickly as possible I told her our ad- 
ventures. 

But she interrupted me in great excite- 
ment: 

‘‘ What, Miss Leonie ! You went over the 
Arle bridge at night? How dreadful ! And 
the good colonel : is he really wounded ? 
Is he much hurt?’* 

p 

“I do not kpow,** I replied; *^we must 


144 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 

hope for the best. But, Barbara, they will 
soon be here, and the doctor too. If you 
will see that all is ready for them, I will go 
in and stay with my father. Has he asked 
for me?'* 

‘‘Ah, no, my lamb ; he has slept constantly. 
But you go to him. Depend on old Bar- 
bara; she will do it all right for you.’’ 

As she turned away I heard her murmur, 
“ Poor motherless lamb ! in a little while you 
will be fatherless too.” Her words fairly 
stunned me. Was my father so sick, then ? 
Was his life really in danger ? I hurried to 
his room to convince myself that he was 
really living, but he looked just the same to 
me. He was sleeping quietly as a child as 
I again took up my station by his bedside. 
In a few moments the chambermaid brought 
me my supper, prepared so daintily by my 
faithful Barbara. 

Then, in a little while, 1 heard wheels, 


THE RESCUE. 


145 


then the stopping of the cart before our 
door, followed by heavy footsteps in the 
rooms below. 

After a long interval, Barbara came back 
with the good news that the colonel was bet- 
ter and quite conscious, that Dr. Duprat said 
he must have perfect restj'and that nothing 
should be told my father that night. She in- 
formed me, too, that the priest had taken the 
other wounded man to his own house, say- 
ing that two sick people were enough for 
us. 

The rest of the evening passed as usual. 

My father woke and raised himself in bed ; 
he seemed to be stronger than he had since 
his attack. He talked a little, and, noticing 
at last that I looked pale and tired, he sent 
me to bed. The tenderness of his tone as 
he wished me ‘‘ Good- night,’’ the deep earn- 
estness with which hfi listened as I read to 

him a few verses from my new Bible, and 
13 K 


146 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


the smile he gave me as I turned at the door 
once more to wish him Good-night/’ — all 
this remained a bright spot in my memory. 
I was tired and exhausted, and fell asleep 
almost before my head touched the pillow. 

The sunlight was streaming brightly into 
my room when I- opened my eyes the next 
morning ; a servant stood by my bed with a 
cup of chocolate for me, but she looked so 
pale that I was frightened. 

‘‘ Oh, Victoria,^' I cried, how is my father ? 
Tell me.*' 

To my great alarm, she began to cry. 

Something has happened. I must go to 
him,*' I said. “ Tell me : he is not dead ?" 

‘‘ No, not dead, miss ; but he is a great 
deal worse than he was yesterday. He has 
had another stroke ; he is quite unconscious. 
But oh, miss, I forgot : Barbara told me not 
to tell you anything until you had had your 
chocolate. “^What will she say to me?" 


THE RESCUE. 


147 


I comforted her, saying that I was very 
glad to hear it now, and, refusing the choc- 
'‘olate, dressed myself hurriedly. 

When I got out into the. hall I saw the 
doctor leaving my father’s room; his face 
was very grave as he took my hands and 
answered, for he read in my face the ques- 
tion I could not ask. I do not remember 
his words, but I know he told me in tender- 
est, most sympathizing words that he feared 
my father could not live through the day. 

But he had mistaken. Slowly the hours 
dragged themselves along ; the sick man lay 
there motionless and unconscious. No one 
could do anything for him, but I sat by his 
bedside and watched him. Was he really to 
leave this world without a parting word, and 
without any sign that even in the eleventh 
hour he had taken the Lord Jesus as his 
Saviour ? 

About noon there came a low knock at the 


148 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


door : it was a message from the colonel — 
just a few words written in pencil: 

** ‘ God is our refuge and strength, a very 
present help in trouble;’ .‘Peace I leave 
with you, my peace I give unto you ‘ If 
ye shall ask anything in my name, I will 
do it.’” 

How full of comfort those words were, 
coming just when I most needed comfort! 

Evening came on, and night, and still there 
was no change ; the midnight hour found me 
still watching." I began to hope that the 
Angel of Death would again pass by, and 
that my father might be spared — at least, 
until he had learned to trust in Jesus as his 
Saviour. 

Slowly passed the hours of the night ; the 
gray dawn was spreading over the wooded 
hills when my father suddenly opened his 
eyes and looked round at us. He seemed 
perfectly sensible, and tried to speak. At 


/ 


THE RESCUE^ 


149 


first his efforts were in vain, but at last he 
managed to whisper, 

‘‘Barbara, do not forget what I told you. 
— Leonie, my child, my darling child, God 
will protect you- — will care for you. I give 
you — to him.” Then his eyes closed again. 

But I cried, 

“ Papa, papa ! only one word more. Tell 
me: is the darkness gone? Is there light 
in the dark valley?” 

Once again he opened his eyes. A smile 
played over his features ; and as I bent over 
him to catch his last yvords he whispered, 
feebly but distinctly, “Yes — Jesus,” and with 
these words his spirit returned to God who 
gave it. 

That was a sad time for me. Now, when 
it is all behind me in the past, I can say, 
“He doeth all things well; I know it, I be- 
lieve it.” But still the wounds have not 

ceased bleeding. I feel, as I write down 
13 * 


150 LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 

this history of my life, all the pain afresh. 
But I know that every bitter affliction has 
brought me nearer to Jesus ; his love is more 
to me than all I have lost. I have given my 
treasures to him, and they are not lost, but 
gone before. 

Barbara led me out of the room when all 
was over and put me to bed, as if I were 
still a little child. I could not weep. My 
father was with Jesus : that was my only 
thought. I soon fell asleep, for I had spent 
twenty- four hours at my father's bedside, and 
exhausted nature demanded rest. 

It was noon before I opened my eyes and 
saw Barbara standing by my bed. The good 
faithful soul ! I have said but little about 
her in my narrative, and yet how constant, 
how full of love, was her tender care of me ! 
I can never forget her. How she tried in 
those days to lighten my trouble ! Now she 
had brought me a tempting meal ; and when, 


THE RESCUE. 


I5I 

to please her, I had eaten a little, she told 
me the colonel wished, if it were possible, 
I would come to see him, as he could not 
come to me. 

I was glad to go, and dressed myself 
quickly ; but first I must stop in my father's 
room. At the first sight of that prostrate 
figure, a sense of what I had lost came over 
me. I sank upon my knees and wept until 
I could weep no more. At last Barbara 
came to remind me that the colonel was 
waiting, and carried me off with her. 

The nurse whom Dr. Duprat had engaged 
opened the door at my knock and invited 
me to come in. The sick man stretched out 
his hand to me and said in sorrowful tones, 

‘‘ Leonie, my poor child !" 

The pale face, the trembling voice and the 
warm pressure of his hand again brought 
the tears. 

“ My dear Leonie," he began, when I was 


152- 


light IN THE DARKNESS. 


a little quieted, ** your loss is very great, but 
we need not sorrow as those without hope. 
Did you not tell me your father had begun 
to think as you do ?’' 

“ Oh yes,’^ I said ; if it were not so, I 
could not bear it. In his last hours Jesus 
was with him ; he bore witness to that.’’ 

Then, my child, we should not grieve be- 
cause he has reached home before us. The 
separation is bitter, but the meeting will be 
sweet.” 

Comforting as his words were, I could not 
control my sorrow, though I tried hard to 
suppress my sobs, until I noticed how dry 
and hot his hand was, and how flushed his 
face with fever. 

‘*Oh, sir,” I cried, frightened, ‘‘how un- 
kind I have been ! I forgot you were so 
sick and suffering ; I thought only of myself 
and my trouble. Do forgive me.” 

“My dear child, your affliction is greater 


THE RESCUE. 


153 


than my pain ; it is hard for me to see you 
weep without being able to comfort you. 
But let your tears flow unrestrainedly; you 
will be the better for it.” 

But I had become alarmed at his fever- 
ish looks, and the lines in his forehead 
showed that the pain was increasing. 

** I see you are in great pain,” I said. 
** What can I do for you ? Shall I call the 
nurse ?” 

No ; stay where you are. If you could 
bathe my forehead, I would be obliged.” 

I dipped a sponge in water and laid it 
on his hot head ; it seemed pleasant to him, 
and after he had refreshed himself with a 
cool drink he said, 

” I thank you, little one ; may God bless 
you! You saved my life yesterday; if you 
had not come to look for me, I must have 
died there. Miller Bertine said if he had 
been alone he would not have taken us 


154 LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 

Prussian dogs into his wagon, but he want- 
ed to please the priest ; and Dr. Duprat told 
me that if you had come half an hour later 
it would have been too late. Yes, Leonie, 
under God, I owe my life to you; and I 
cannot understand how you, so young and 
generally so timid, should expose yourself 
to such danger.'' 

I could not answer him ; the little I had 
done seemed so trifling when I remembered 
this man was the only friend I had in the 
world. 

** Will you tell me something of your 
father?" he continued; ^'or do you not feel 
strong enough?" 

I was glad to comply with this request; 
and though the tears were rolling down my 
cheeks, yet it was a pleasure for me to tell 
him of the great change in my father's 
views, and I saw in my friend's face how 
his heart rejoiced over the good news. 


THE RESCUE. 1 55 

I SO much desired to tell him of your 
accident, ’’ I said, '^but the doctor said he 
must have no excitement, and afterward 
there was no opportunity. It would have 
been a comfort to him to know that his 
child had a friend and helper here.’* 

‘A helper,’ ” he said, sadly. ‘^Ah, Leo- 
nie, what can I, helpless myself, do for you 
except to commit you to the care of him 
who is a Father to the fatherless?” 

At this moment the nurse returned ; her 
practised eye immediately detected the fe- 
verish symptoms in her patient. 

** Pardon me, miss,” she said, ** if I beg 
you not to stay longer ; for, as I feared, the 
gentleman has been talking too much. His 
fever is much higher.” 

The colonel was commencing to remon- 
strate, but she cut him short; and I made 
my escape and went into my father’s room 
and knelt down by the bed on which he lay. 


156 LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 

So Barbara found me, and she led me away. 
All the rest of the day she exerted herself 
to comfort me. She wept with me and in- 
formed me that my father, feeling his end 
near, had told her that he had consented to 
the colonel’s wish to send me to Germany 
under safe protection, to remain until the end 
of the war; and for this purpose he had 
given her a sum of money. He had also 
said that as quickly as possible after his 
death she should make her preparations to 
start, and, above all, to tell Colonel von 
Wertheim of his wish. Barbara declared 
she had made up her mind to accompany me 
wherever I went; and, amid all my sorrow, 
I could not help feeling glad at the prospect, 
and grateful for my father’s care for me. 

The day passed on, and before the next 
night a new grave had been dug next to 
my mother’s, and the body of my father laid 
there under the sod. 


CHAPTER IX. 




HE house seemed very quiet and still 



after the excitement of the funeral. 


What a comfort to me in those days was my 
Bible! and it was such a pleasure now and 
then, as our guest was able to bear it, to talk 
with him over the things we both loved. A 
journey to Germany was not to be thought 
of now, but he hoped, when his strength re- 
turned a little, to obtain a furlough and go 
home to recuperate. His fever was decreas- 
ing daily, and, although the physicians had 
not yet been able to extract the ball, he felt 
less pain — at least, he never complained and 
his eyes were clear and his face was cheerful. 

During this time he told me much of his 
14 157 


158 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


mother and his sister Thekla, of his home 
and his childhood days, until I felt as well 
acquainted with his home as if I had been , 
there for years. 

So one day passed after another without 
change in his condition. The physician 
would not allow him to be moved, even 
to be propped up in bed. The wound had 
healed quickly, but the ball could not be 
found; Dr. Duprat was waiting impatiently 
for the time when the colonel’s servant 
would be strong enough to go to Belfort 
and bring a renowned German physician 
to consult with him. At last the man was 
pronounced well enough to travel, and, pro- 
vided with letters from the colonel, started 
on his journey. 

The next afternoon 1. saw from my win- 
dow four German soldiers alighting before 
the house. My heart beat quickly, but the 
hope that the pain of the operation, if they de- 


SORROW. 


159 


cided that was necessary, would be short, and 
that recovery would speedily follow, quieted 
me; and I ran to the sick man’s room to 
tell him who had come. 

That is good,” he said, brightly, and then 
continued, looking at my rather sad face, 
‘‘ Can you not trust me in the hands of 
our heavenly Father?” 

I cannot bear to think that you must 
suffer,” I confessed. 

What !” he said ; is that the little hero- 
ine who a short while ago went through the 
woods at night to save the life of a poor 
wounded man ?” 

Before I could speak again Barbara came 
to announce that a German physician and 
three officers had arrived, and that the 
former begged to see his patient soon, as 
his time was limited. 

I left the room with Barbara, and* in the 
hall met our own doctor coming up with 


l6o LIGHT IN THE DARKNE!!SS. 

the stranger. How formidable he looked! 
My nurse went back with them, and I, feel- 
ing desolate and forlorn, wandered off to my 
own room ; but I could not stay there quiet- 
ly, so I stole down the stairs, intending to 
see about some supper for the patient as 
soon as the doctors were gone, but instead 
I went into my father’s study. Here I wait- 
ed in indescribable anxiety; yet before it 
seemed possible my ear caught the sound 
of a door opened, then shut ; of softly-spoken 
words, and then footsteps on the stairs. Yes, 
they were coming to the study. I jumped up 
and ran to the window, where heavy cur- 
tains completely hid me from view. Why 
I did this I do not know; perhaps I feared 
to let them see my distress, perhaps there 
was an unacknowledged* dread of what their 
tidings might be. It was all the work of a 
minute. 

Scarcely was I in my hiding-place when 


SORROW. 


i6i 


the door opened and the two physicians 
came in. I heard Dr. Duprat say, 

‘‘Then there is no hope, you think?” 

“ None — not the slightest,” was the reply. 

“You have had more experience than I,” 
continued our own doctor; “tell me truly: 
could anything have been done before ? 
Would it have been possible to extract the 
ball earlier?” 

“ Impossible,” answered the other. “ This 
sort of wound is too extended and too far 
out of our reach. Death is the inevitable 
consequence. You see — ” Then followed 
a long technical explanation, while I sat and 
listened breathlessly. 

I listened, and understood all ; I heard the 
death-knell of all my earthly hopes. It 
seemed a lifetime while I sat there, but at 
last the two gentlemen exchanged compli- 
ments and polite words, and the conversa- 
tion was at an end. They left the study 
14* L 


i 62 light in the darkness. 

and went to join the three officers in the 
drawing-room. 

I cannot describe my feelings. I did not 
faint or cry out, but quietly and gravely I 
left the room and mounted the stairs. In 
the upper hall I saw Dr. Duprat walking up 
and down and looking very sad. He did 
not speak to me. I went to my own room 
and threw myself on the floor in an agony of 
pain and despair. Wild, rebellious thoughts 
were in my heart. Father and mother had 
been taken from me, and now the friend 
whom I thought God had sent me to make 
up for their loss. How long I lay there I 
do not know ; time went by unnoticed. Sud- 
denly I remembered the doctors had said 
their patient could not live many days. I 
must spend these last hours with him ; there 
would be time enough to cry afterward. I 
bathed my hands and face in cold water, and 
then sank upon my knees with the prayer, 


SORROW. 


163 

Lord, help, or I perish.** And he did help ; 
it was his power that strengthened me so 
wonderfully that I could not only bear my 
trouble, but was able to hide it from the eyes 
of my dying friend. I felt it was my duty 
to make these last days of his life bright, 
and the Lord gave me power to do it. 

It seemed to me hours had passed in the 
little while I had been away from the sick- 
room ; when I returned to it I was received 
with the same kind smile as ever, but I 
guessed, by a certain gravity that underlay 
the smile, that the colonel knew all. And 
this thought again robbed me of my com- 
posure. I knelt down by the bed and hid 
my face. Neither of us spoke, until after a 
little the sick man’s voice broke the silence, 
though he did not speak to me, but to him 
who alone is able to help ; and as he prayed 
the storm in my heart quieted itself un- 
der those earnest words of submission and 


164 LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 

trust After that he talked to me — talked 
a little about the separation from those 
he loved, but more of the time when we 
would all meet in the presence of Jesus. 
But he was evidently much weaker; he no 
longer tried to hide his pain from me, for 
he knew that my knowledge of how he suf- 
fered would make it easier for me to let him 
go where all tears shall be wiped away and 
where there shall be no more pain. What 
the German doctor had told him had been 
no surprise ; it had only confirmed what he 
had already conjectured. He was perfectly 
ready to go, and seemed even happy at the 
call. 

Even Barbara felt this, and wondered. 

‘‘ If this is heresy, she said, it is a soft 
pillow to die on.’* 

Two or three days after the German doc- 
tor had been present and gone, two soldiers 
came with letters for the colonel — letters for 


SORROW. 


i6s 

which he had been longing. The men came 
up to his room, and while I waited outside and 
sealed a letter, partly written by the colonel 
and partly dictated by him, I heard the 
earnest words of advice and entreaty of the 
dying man to his friends. 

When they left the room, I went back; 
and the first thing that met my eyes on en- 
tering was a letter with a black border and 
sealed with black lying on the table by the 
bed. 

‘‘Oh,** I cried, “has anything happened?** 

The colonel opened his eyes and smiled at 
me — an unearthly smile, it seemed to me — 
as he said, 

“ There is one less on earth to mourn for 
me, Leonie : my dear mother is gone before 
me. I will see her in heaven.** 

“What! your mother?** I cried. 

“ The Lord has taken her to himself,** he 
said, “ and I thank him for it. She has en- 


i66 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


tered into rest, and will not have to weep for 
my loss ; death will take me to her.'’ 

But Thekla — poor Thekla ?" I asked. 

For a moment a shadow passed over his 
face ; then he said, 

“ Even for Thekla this sorrow will work 
for good ; she too belongs to the Lord, and 
he will make up to her a hundredfold the 
loss of mother and brother. You must go to 
her and stay during the war ; she will be a sis- 
ter to you. Do not mourn for me ; the sep- 
aration will not be for long. I had hoped to 
take you to my home, but in his love and 
wisdom the Lord has ordered it differently. 
He does not need me to protect you. I have 
soon reached the end of life ; in a little while 
I will be with Jesus in our real home. Will 
you not be glad for me, Leonie ?” 

‘‘ Oh yes," I answered, I am glad for you 
and your mother, but I think of myself and 
your sister Thekla." 


SORROW. 


167 

I stopped, for I saw he was very tired ; and 
we were both silent for some time, until, look- 
ing at him, I saw he had fallen asleep. In 
about half an hour he wakened and asked 
me to read the other letters to him. There 
were four of them, each of a different date. 
One was from his mother, written several 
weeks before her death; the others were 
from Thekla, the first full of happiness : she 
had received a letter from her betrothed, 
Karl' Erhardt, from whom nothing had been 
heard for some time. He had been wounded 
he wrote to her, but was perfectly well again, 
and was now with the army of the crown 
prince before Paris. In another letter she 
spoke of her increasing fears for her mother’s 
health and wished longingly for her brother. 
The third told of the moither’s death and 
begged him to come, if only for one day. 
Alas ! the poor girl little knew how soon 
she would lose her brother also. 


i68 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


From this time on the sick man’s weak- 
ness forbade any conversation ; the end was 
rapidly approaching. One evening, after I 
had bade him ‘‘ Good-night,” he stopped me 
as I was leaving the room, and said to Bar- 
bara, 

‘‘ Let her stay with me to-night, nurse.” 

Instantly I knew what he was expecting, 
but I returned to my seat without remark. 

Slowly the hours went by. I felt no 
weariness ; my thoughts were centred on 
my dying friend. His weakness was too 
great to allow him to talk, but his counte- 
nance expressed the peace that filled his soul. 
Once more he looked at me with a half smile ; 
then his eyes closed, and with a low sigh he 
was gone. 

Stunned and almost unconscious, I con- 
tinued to sit there looking at that quiet face. 
The loud sobbing of Barbara I heard as one 
in a dream, but when she tried to take me 


SORROW. 


169 


from the room I roused myself and attempt- 
ed to go over to the bed; but everything 
grew black before me, and in a dead faint 
I sank on the floor. 

What remains for me tell ? After the 
funeral the house seemed so dull and my 
life so empty that I do not like even to 
think of those days. Barbara, Stephen and 
Dr. Duprat did all they could to comfort 
me, but their words had no effect. 

One day Barbara reminded me that it had 
been the wish of my father, and of Colonel 
von Wertheim also, that we should not stay 
in France during the- war, but when she be- 
gan to make preparations for the journey I 
remembered that the colonel had told me 
we would have to wait for our passport, 
which a German officer was to send to us. 
To me it seemed so soon to leave the place 
where my mother, father and friend lay that 

I rejoiced over the delay. 

^•5 


170 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


We dismissed two of the servants, and 
Stephen, Pierre, Barbara and I were left alone 
in the lonely house. My old nurse was like 
a mother to me during all this time, and it is 
a pleasure to me to remember that she, as 
well as my cousin, listened with increasing 
interest when occasionally I read to them 
from my Bible. Stephen never made ^ any 
remark, but I saw a great change in him; 
he had been more quiet and more thought- 
ful ever since my father's death. As for Bar- 
bara, she still clung to the ceremonies of the 
Romish Church, but I do not doubt she 
had learned to know him whom to know is 
eternal life. She liked to hear of Jesus as 
the Good Shepherd who had given his life 
for the sheep. Her father had been a shep- 
herd, and her childish days had been spent 
on the hills among the sheep. This made 
it easy for her to understand the love of the 
Lord for his own. And I ? The sharp edge 


SORROW. 


I7I 


of my trouble had been somewhat dulled, 
yet many times I was very unhappy. The 
Bible was a great comfort, but I was very 
ignorant and there was no one to teach me. 
When the weather allowed I went to the 
cemetery to the three graves, but most of 
the time I sat in my father’s study. I felt 
alone — ah, so alone! The world had no 
attraction for me, and heaven seemed very 
far off. 

One day a letter came for me from Thekla ; 
it was full of expressions of the bitterest 
sorrow and tender compassion — the first for 
her brother, the last for me. She begged 
me to come to her as soon as possible ; she 
was very lonely, and it would be a comfort 
to her to have me. 

Barbara was much gratified by this letter, 
and Dr. Duprat, too, convinced that leaving 
a neighborhood that must continually awaken 
sad memories would be good for me, advised 


1/2 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


our going soon ; so, although I knew neither 
time nor place would make me forget my 
trouble, I resisted no longer. Indeed, as 
our passport had arrived, there was no 
longer pretext for delay. 

Barbara planned that Stephen and Pierre 
should remain behind, while she herself 
would accompany me, then come back and 
so arrange everything that it would be easy, 
after the war was over, for me to retura and 
take possession of my property. I knew 
the old ruined castle could no longer be 
my home. Yet the thoughts of men are not 
always the thoughts of God ; I needed more 
than a change of residence to rouse me from 
my despondency and make me fit for my 
work in the world. 

On one cloudy December morning I went 
out, as usual, alone to the graveyard. Only 
a few days remained before our departure. 
I leaned against the large old walnut tree 


SORROW. 


173 


under whose branches were the graves of my 
three loved ones, and read again the inscrip- 
tions on the simple wooden crosses which 
marked the resting-places of my parents and 
our German friend. Mourning — ^yes, almost 
murmuring — over my hard fate, I threw my- 
self on the cold sod. * I had never felt so 
lonely, so forsaken, as in that moment. I 
knew that death lurked in the cold, damp 
ground on which I lay, but it was death I 
sought; I would perhaps have found it if 
some one had not raised me and bade me 
go home. It was the old priest, Pere Fon- 
taine. The window of his study overlooked 
the graveyard, and, sitting there, he had seen 
me. He led me to the road, and, to my sur- 
prise, I saw it filled with soldiers. I noticed, 
too, that the whole village seemed to be in 
a stir and excitement. They were French 
soldiers, and a hasty glance showed me that 
the road to my home was completely blocked ; 

15 * 


174 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


but the priest led me to one side, where, with 
some trouble, he climbed over the wall of the 
cemetery. . I followed him, and he conducted 
me in great haste over a field which divided 
us from the old castle. He left me as soon 
as he had seen me slip into the garden 
through a little door, bidding me go quick- 
ly into the house. I obeyed, fearing I 
hardly knew what. 

Barbara was preparing food for about 
twenty soldiers that were in the house. 
There was an unusual noise and tumult both 
inside and out; but, shunning the soldiers, 
I went to my father^s study, where my Bible 
lay upon the table. Opening it, my eye fell 
on the words : ‘^And she [Mary] knew not 
that it was Jesus.'’ These words seemed 
just to describe me. Like Mary, blinded 
by my tears, I had not recognized him who 
with pierced hands and feet stood by my 
side, and like her I sank at his feet with the 


SORROW. 


175 


cry, Rabboni ! Master !’* And while I hid 
my face before him and poured out my anx- 
ious heart the scales fell from my eyes. I 
saw him near me — him who had given his 
life for me and promised to love me till the 
end. I recognized the sin and the unbelief 
of my selfish grief And now first I felt 
that my life belonged to him who had offered 
his for me, and I laid my trouble, my life — 
myself — at his feet, to let him do with .me 
as he would. Truly, this hour would be 
one to remember through my whole life, 
even without the aid of the events that fol- 
lowed it. 

The noise I had noticed before had in- 
creased, but I remained on my knees until 
the door was thrown violently open and sev- 
eral soldiers entered. I sprang to my feet and 
looked at them inquiringly. At sight of me 
they stopped, and one of their number ad- 
vanced, saying. 


176 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


Pardon us for interrupting you ; but if 
you will be so good as to go to the back 
of the house, you will find it safer there/’ 

Before I could collect my thoughts to an- 
swer, Barbara rushed in. 

Not here — not here !” she said to the 
soldiers. ‘‘ Leave at least this room alone. 
Do you not see the young lady is here ?” 
and, while she held the open door with one 
hand, she seized the nearest man by the 
shoulder and pushed him out into the hall. 
The others hesitated a moment; then they 
followed, and Barbara shut and bolted the 
door after them. 

‘‘What is it, Barbara?” I asked as she 
turned to me and clasped me close in her 
arms. 

“ Oh, my child, it is too terrible ! Oh, if 
the good colonel were but here ! How can 
I save you, my darling ? Oh, my poor little 
lamb !” 


SORROW. 


177 


'' But, dear Barbara,” I said, ** God is with 
us. Tell me: what is the matter? Will there 
be a battle ?” 

‘‘Yes,” she answered; “some of our sol- 
diers are down in the village, and they say 
the Germans are advancing to attack them ; 
and I am sure they will come to our house 
first. The men here have guarded every 
window. I could not come to you before, 
and now it is too late. We cannot possibly 
get away, and I do not know that it is any 
better anywhere else. Oh, if you were only 
safe in Germany !” 

M 


CHAPTER X. 

KARL ERHARDT. 

UR situation was indeed frightful. 



The thought that we two helpless 
women — one of us, indeed, only a child — 
were in the very midst of the strife terrified 
me ; but I knew where to look, and that gave 
me courage. 

‘‘ Dear Barbara,’’ I said, ‘‘ will a shepherd 
leave his sheep alone and unprotected when 
the wolf comes or a storm breaks over them ? 
And will Jesus, the Good Shepherd — our 
Shepherd, yours and mine, Barbara — leave 
us in our need?” 

She covered her face with her apron and 
sobbed aloud. I opened my Bible and read 
to her the twenty-third psalm. Scarcely had 


178 


KARL ERHARDT. 


179 


I ended when the fighting began. We heard 
a loud word of command ; then followed the 
firing of muskets, the clash of arms, loud 
groans and cries, and at last the thunder of 
the cannon. At every discharge the house 
creaked in all its joints. I was crouching in 
a corner of the big sofa ; Barbara sat by me 
holding my hands in hers. She did not 
speak, but I saw her lips moving as if she 
prayed. Several balls whizzed through the 
room; then suddenly there was compar- 
ative quiet. The shooting seemed to be 
farther off. 

Barbara rose and went to the window, 
though I begged her not. 

** It is over. Our troops have yielded, I 
think,’’ she said. 

Then suddenly the firing began again; it 
was evident some of our troops were in the 
house, and were firing at the enemy. 

In the next minute these shots were re- 


l80 LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 

turned. A ball crashed through the window, 
and Barbara — my good, faithful Barbara — 
fell senseless to the floor. I ran to her, bent 
over the prostrate form and called her name, 
but in vain. What should I do? I had no 
remedies at hand. Confused and stunned, I 
sat several minutes on the floor holding her 
head in my arms. 

I still hoped life would return; but, as 
there were no signs of returning conscious- 
ness, I felt I must seek help. I laid her 
head as gently as possible on the floor, and, 
trusting in God to protect me, I opened the 
door. A cloud of smoke greeted me: our 
house was on fire. I ran to the stairs ; sol- 
diers were hurrying hither and thither to 
save what they could from the flames. 

‘‘ Help ! help I cried. ‘‘ Up here is a 
wounded woman : will no one help her ?’* 

Two soldiers answered my cry and fol- 
lowed me into the room where Barbara lay. 


KARL ERHARDT. l8l 

The smoke was suffocating; the other end 
of the house was in flames, which were be- 
ing rapidly driven toward the stairs. I 
seized my Bible, my precious gift; there 
was no time to save more — no time even to 
take a last look at the room, now filled with 
smoke, which held so many sacred remem- 
brances for me. 

** Hurry, miss, or it will be too late,” one 
of the soldiers said. 

‘‘Follow me,” I cried; and the two men, 
carrying the helpless Barbara between them, 
obeyed. 

Hastily descending the stairs, I led them 
into one of the back rooms, hoping to escape 
by the window into the garden, but the flames 
met us oil the threshold. Then we tried the 
kitchen ; there also the fire raged. I quick- 
ly turned to a narrow passage-way leading 
to the vegetable garden, and fortunately we 

were able to pass through this. 

16 


i 82 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


At some distance from the burning house 
they laid their burden on the grass. One 
of the soldiers bent over her. 

‘‘ She is dead,” he said, in broken French. 
‘‘You can do nothing more for her. Think 
now of your own safety.” 

“ Dead !” I repeated ; “ dead ! Oh, Bar- 
bara, Barbara! But are you quite certain 
of it?” 

The young soldier bent his head and 
touched a round blue spot on her temple. 

“ I have seen too much of this to be mis- 
taken,” he said. “ Can we do anything for 
you? Shall we call your servants?” 

“ Oh no,” I answered ; “ I do not know 
how you can help me ;” for I knew that Ste- 
phen was away and knew nothing of this 
misfortune. But I remembered I had seen 
nothing of Pierre, and inquired for him. 

“We will look for him and send him to 
you,” he answered. “Ah! now we must 


KARL ERHARDT. 1 83 

leave you for just then the sound of a 
trumpet was heard. 

But it was a long time before help came. 
I sat on the cold, damp grass holding the 
lifeless head of my old nurse on my lap. 
My parents and my kind friend lay in the 
grave; the good Barbara, who had been to 
me as a mother, had left me ; my home, the 
place where my childhood days had been 
spent, had become a prey to the hungry 
flames. Yet under all this I was not de- 
pressed, as I had been in the morning. 
Strength had come to my weakness, peace 
to my wretchedness. I felt that my weak 
hand was in the powerful grasp of him who 
had said to me, “ Fear not, for I am with 
thee f and I rested quietly until help came. 

The air was heavy and full of smoke ; the 
short December twilight began to make way 
for the night ; now and then flakes of snow 
fell; and I was still alone. It was impossi- 


1 84 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


ble for me to leave my poor dead nurse, al- 
though she needed my help no more. 

Just then the roof of the house fell in 
* 

with a loud crash, sending out a cloud of 
smoke and sparks. For some time longer 
the raging flames shot upward as if seeking 
for fresh prey, but gradually they died away ; 
and I knew now that all was over. My old 
home was no more ; all my father’s books, 
all his manuscripts, the work of long years, 
— all were destroyed. I had saved nothing 
but my Bible. I was perfectly conscious of 
all I had lost, but all my care I laid upon him 
who careth for me. 

At last, just as I had begun to wonder 
if -Pierre too could be dead, he came. The 
poor man, at the beginning of the fighting, 
had hidden himself in one of the outbuildings, 
and had remained there until it was all over. 
He had been searching everywhere for Bar- 
bara and me — had even gone to the village 


KARL ERHARDT. 


i8S 

to inquire. He had met the priest, who had 
heard from one of the soldiers that helped 
me of a young lady up at the castle who 
needed assistance; after a long search they 
had found me and my nurse. The two 
carried her carefully into the parsonage ; I 
followed slowly. When I reached the house, 
the housekeeper took possession of me, gave 
me a hot drink to ward off cold, and sent 
me to bed. Exhausted by sorrow and ex- 
citement, I soon fell into a deep sleep, and 
for several hours forgot all my troubles. 

Early the next morning, when I wakened 
and remembered the occurrences of the pre- 
vious day, the tears came again, but with the 
tears came words of prayer : 

Lord, thou hast taken all from me — my 
parents, my teacher, my home, my old friend 
— but thou thyself art still with me. Thou 
knowest my sorrow, my loneliness. I have 

no one but thee, and thou art sufficient for 
16 * 


1 86 LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 

me. Teach me the way I should go ; show 
me what I can do for thee.** This prayer 
has been heard and answered ; peace came 
to me, and since that time I have always ex- 
perienced the love that comforts me, the 
grace that strengthens me and the power 
that upholds me. 

I could not go to sleep again ; and when I 
rose from my bed, though the sadness had 
not gone, yet my soul was full of peace and 
ready to live and to work, to wait and to 
stand fast. 

And I soon learned what my work was. 
As I left my room on this morning and went 
down stairs my ear caught the sound of 
groans. The priest*s old servant, who met 
me in the hall, led me, in answer to my in- 
quiries, into a little room, where, to my as- 
tonishment, I saw several wounded soldiers 
lying on hastily-made-up beds on the floor. 

I had spent so much of life lately by the 


KARL ERHARDT. 


187 


sick-bed that it came natural to me to help 
these, who seemed to me in such sore need 
of help. I went from one to the other, giv- 
ing a drink to one or a word of cheer to a 
second. I think that the Lord led me 
through the way of suffering that I might 
be able to help other suffering ones. I de- 
termined then to devote myself to nursing 
the sick, and, although so young, I had had 
more experience than many older persons. 

The next day I told Pere Fontaine of my 
resolve. The old man begged me not to 
think of such a thing, reminding me of my 
youth and my inexperience in such diffi- 
cult work. But I felt that the Lord had 
pointed out this way for me, and that, in 
spite of my weakness and ignorance, he 
would use me for his service. 

Three days after the funeral of my old 
nurse I went with Dr. Duprat to an army 
hospital about three miles from our village, 


i88 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


intending to go northward from there to the 
centre of the war. To be sure, there were 
plenty of wounded in our own neighborhood ; 
but there was no lack of willing hands and 
kind hearts to help them, and I heard from 
the soldiers how sadly nurses were need- 
ed in other places. Therefore I joyfully ac- 
cepted Dr. Duprat's proposal to accompany 
him, without waiting even to say Fare- 
well '' to my loved ones. Perhaps it was as 
well to go away suddenly, for there was 
enough trouble to meet, without giving 
myself fresh pain. 

The day before my departure Stephen 
returned. His astonishment was unbounded 
at finding our house in ashes ; and when he 
learned my purpose of becoming a nurse, he 
used all his powers of persuasion to induce 
me to go with him instead to Havre, to some 
relatives of his whom he had been visiting. 
They had sent me a warm invitation to come 


KARL ERHARDT. 


189 


to them, and I would gladly have gone had 
I not been convinced it was my duty to stay ; 
as it was, it cost me a hard struggle to refuse 
him. I gave him my Bible — for the colonel 
had left me his little German one — and begged 
him to read and study it. I promised him to 
write punctually, and we parted with heavy 
hearts. 

Before leaving the village I wrote to Thek- 
la, telling her what had occurred and my mo- 
tive for delaying my visit to Germany, and 
promising to come as soon as my work at 
home was finished. I felt sure, I wrote, that 
she would understand my feelings and sym- 
pathize with me. 

Arrived at our destination, I soon found 
my hands full ; everywhere I met wretched- 
ness and misery which far surpassed my ex- 
pectations. But the Lord gave me strength 
and courage, and, although sometimes heart 
and spirit failed, I felt his arm supporting me. 


igo 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


My life, though a hard one, was not with- 
out its pleasures. It was a joy to point souls 
trembling and frightened at the approach of 
death to Jesus the Saviour of sinners. My 
work seemed very trifling, when there were 
so many needing, help ; but should the drop 
of rain murmur because it refreshes only one 
flower ? Oh no ! If only one had learned 
to trust in Jesus, it would have been reward 
enough. 

We went from one place to another, and 
stayed longest where we seemed most need- 
ed. My heart was sad at the sight of so 
many youthful lives sacrificed. I remember 
especially one delicate pale face with large 
bright eyes, his fair hair all stained with 
blood. I shall never forget the look he gave 
me as I told him of what was coming, or 
the tone in which he cried, ‘^Who will tell 
my mother?'' Poor boy! poor mother! I 
wonder who told her of her boy's death? 


KARL ERHARDT, 


I9I 

Unknown, but not unmourned, we buried 
him away from mother and home. 

The war was over at last ; but looking at 
the many graves, remembering the count- 
less widows and orphans, the burned cities 
and villages, the wasted fields and meadows, 
the word ‘‘ peace seemed to me like mock- 
cry. The proud neck of France had bent 
before the power of the victors, but in the 
hearts of many of the conquered hatred 
and revenge still burned fiercely. 

At this time I was just outside of Paris. 
My strength was well-nigh exhausted; I 
was beginning to feel the extraordinary strain 
of the last four months; but there was still 
much to do. With failing strength I worked 
on. One thing was very good for me : I 
had no time to think of my own trials, the 
present pleasure of alleviating the sorrows 
of others filling all my thoughts. I had 
written several times to Thekla, and longed 


192 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


more and more to go to her; for through 
her letters I had learned to love her very 
dearly. 

One morning, as I took my usual round 
through our temporary hospital, I noticed a 
strange face ; without knowing why, I felt 
myself attracted by it, and was very glad to 
learn that his wounds were not fatal : he had 
been hurt by the accidental discharge of a 
gun after peace had been declared. Al- 
though he did not complain, he was evi- 
dently troubled by the delay caused by his 
injuries, which hindered his leading his regi- 
ment home. 

After the doctor had examined and dressed 
his wounds, I accompanied him to the other 
patients. How large was the number of the 
wounded! Everywhere I saw faces flushed 
with fever — faces whose features plainly 
showed that for them peace had come too 
late. Occasionally the doctor awakened a 


KARL ERHARDT. 


193 


bright look of joy when he declared some 
wound nearly healed and recovery near. 
After he had left the hospital and I had 
helped the other nurses to care for the rest, 
I took my Bible, as usual, and read a little 
to those who were able to listen. Sitting 
near the bed of the new arrival, I presently 
heard a faint call from a patient at the other 
end of the room : it was a man whose inju- 
ries were past human skill to heal. As I 
rose to go to him the stranger said, 

‘‘Would you kindly lend me that book 
while you are away, if you please ? I would 
like to read a little for myself’ 

For a moment I hesitated, feeling a strange 
reluctance to trust in strange hands the pre- 
cious and only remembrance of my kind 
friend. But the next minute I rebuked my 
selfishness ^nd handed him the Bible. The 
look of pleasure with which he received it 

convinced me that its contents were not un- 
ir N 


194 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


known to him, and reconciled me to his 
having my book. 

I stayed some time with the dying man, 
though there was little I could do for his 
bodily comfort; but God put words in my 
mouth to speak to him. I told of him whose 
blood cleanses from all sin and whose grace • 
can save even in the eleventh hour, and I 
had the joy of seeing his face grow calm. 

o 

His forehead smoothed itself, his head lay 
quietly back on the pillow, and with the 
Name that is above every name on his lips 
he fell asleep. I saw that Death was not far 
off, for lately I had too often seen his foot- 
prints to be deceived. 

When I went back for my Bible, the 
stranger, instead of giving it up, pointed to 
the title-page, saying, 

‘‘Tell me, I beg you, miss, how you got 
this book. Where is my friend Von Wert- 
heim, whose name I read here?*’ 


KARL ERHARDT. 


195 


The sound of that name, so long unheard, 
for a moment took from me all power to 
answer; but, seeing his anxiety, I tried to 
compose myself, and said softly, 

** He is where he will need that no more 
— with the Lord ” 

^‘Dead?’' he cried; ^'my friend dead? 
No, it is not possible. What you say can- 
not be.'* 

In his excitement he had raised himself 
in his bed, and I hastened to say, 

‘‘ Indeed, yes ; he is no longer among the 
living." 

*^Are you certain ? How can you know ? 
Have you seen him?"" 

‘‘Yes," I said. 

He sank back upon his pillow and cov- 
ered his face with his hands. Had my 
words sounded cold and harsh ? I wondered. 

For all the world I could not have spoken 
differently. Several minutes passed before 


196 LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 

he spoke again ; finally he looked up and 
said, 

‘‘ This news robs me of half my pleasure 
in returning home. Ah ! for him there is 
no more sorrow or troj^ble, but for me 
and for—” 

His emotion was too great to allow him 
to continue, but presently he went on : 

Pardon me, but the blow is so sudden ! 
He was my dearest friend, and I loved him 
as a brother; I know no one in the world 
like him. You said you saw him die : where 
was it? Pray tell me, if it will not trouble 
you too much.” 

He died on the 5th of December, in one 
of the little villages of the Vosges, near Bel- 
fort,” I answered. 

‘‘How did it happen?” he asked. “Did 
he fall in battle?” 

“ No,” I said. “ In October he came with 
his regiment to our village, and with some 


KARL ERHARDT. 


197 


of his men was quartered at our house. We 
— that is, my father and I — found in him no 
enemy, but a friend ; and he stayed a week 
with us. Three weeks afterward, going 
through the woods just outside of our vil- 
lage, he was shot. Th'ey carried him to our 
house, and he died there a few weeks later. 
If you knew him, you know what his end 
was. His grave is in the cemetery at home, 
near the graves of my parents.’* 

‘^And do you know his relatives ?” he 
asked. ** He has a mother and a sister.” 

“ He has a sister — he kad a mother,” I an- 
swered. 

‘‘ What ! do you mean his mother is dead 
too ?” he exclaimed. 

“Yes; the Lord spared her the pain of 
losing her son. She died just a little while 
before him.” 

“And both are dead?” he said, sadly; 

and then, in a whisper, “Mother and brother 
17 * 


198 LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 

have left you. Oh, my poor, poor Thek- 
la.^^ 

You are Karl Erhardt, then?” I cried. 

He looked at me in astonishment : 

Yes; that is my name. Did you hear it 
from my poor friend?” 

‘‘ From him, and from Thekla also,” I an- 
swered. 

‘'From Thekla? What! you know her? 
Oh, do tell me about her. I have heard 
nothing for two months.” 

“ I have not heard very lately,” I answered, 
“ but in her last letter she said she was well, 
but seemed to be still grieving over the loss 
of her two loved ones. I have written to her 
two or three times since then, but have re- 
ceived no answer — no doubt because I have 
led such a wandering life lately.” 

“You have given yourself early to the 
task of nursing the sick,” he said. “ How 
long have you been engaged in it?” 


KARL ERHARDT. 


199 


Since December/^ I answered. 

“You said you have a father: how could 
he let you sacrifice yourself so?’^ 

“ I have no longer a father or a home. 
My father died some weeks before the death 
of your friend, and of my home there is 
nothing left but a heap of ashes.'' 

“ Poor child !" he said. “ Now I under- 
stand your sympathy with others. Pardon 
me that I have unconsciously turned your 
thoughts into such a sad direction. But I 
can see you have overworked yourself ; you 
are attempting too much. Why do you not 
go to Thekla von Wertheim ? I know she 
would be delighted to have you." 

But I could not wait to talk longer. Too 
much time had been spent already ; so I 
rose, taking my little basket, filled with 
medicine for the sick, and with wine and jelly 
for the convalescent. But a sudden thought 
struck me, and, acting on it, I took from my 


200 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


pocket Thekla’s last letter and gave it to 
him. I knew it would tell him all he need- 
ed to know, and would save my going again 
through those sad scenes with him. I walked 
down the room, past the long rows of beds, 
mechanically fulfilling my duties. Never had 
I felt so physically incapable of performing 
them. 

When I came back to my new acquaint- 
ance, he stretched out his hand to me and 
said kindly, 

** I know it all now, and you must give me 
a brother's right to take care of you. And 
the first thing will be to give up your work 
here. I can see that you are injuring your 
health. In a few days I hope to be able to 
start for home; you will go with me and 
give Thekla an unexpected pleasure?" 

I could not speak. How wonderfully the 
Lord had arranged everything for me ! Just 
when I most needed friends he sent them. 


KARL ERHARDT. 


201 


The remainder of this day so important to 
me I passed at the bedside of the dying sol- 
dier of whom I have spoken ; in the pres- 
ence of death I forgot my fatigue. Shortly 
before midnight, with words of peace and 
trust on his lips, he breathed his last, and 
one more name was added to the list of 
those who had given their lives for their 
country. 

Then I left the hospital. My strength was 
utterly exhausted ; the unexpected meeting 
with Thekla’s friend had affected me great- 
ly. I remember how the doctor ‘laid his 
hand on my shoulder and looked at me 
gravely, but I recollect no more; for sev- 
eral hours I lay in a death-like swoon, so 
that those around me feared life would never 
return. 

When I opened my eyes again, it was evi- 
dent to me that my work in the hospital — 
for the present, at least — ^was ended. I was 


202 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


not really sick, only my strength was gone ; 
so, when Colonel Erhardt started on his jour- 
ney home, I accepted his kind invitation and 
left France with him. 


CHAPTER XI. 


CONCLUSION, 

T he journey now seems to me like a 
dream. A mail-train soon brought 
us over the border into Germany, but I 
was too tired and exhausted to think of what 
was going on around me. The first night we 
stopped at the house of a relative of Colonel 
Erhardt; kind hands cared for me and did 
all possible for my comfort. All else in my 
memory is a blank page. 

At last we reached the end of our jour- 
ney. Colonel Erhardt had written nothing 
to Thekla of our coming, for letters were 
easily lost in those days, but by a comrade 
who was going home he had sent word that 
he had been hindered by a slight wound, 

203 


204 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


but would come home in two weeks at the 
latest. 

It was a clear, cold, sunny March day 
when we reached our destination. We left 
the cars and took, an open carriage for the 
few miles yet before us. As for me, I was 
too tired to feel any excitement about the 
meeting; but the face of my companion was 
beaming with joy and expectation. As we 
came near the place where his youth had 
been spent, he received a hearty welcome 
from almost every one we met. 

But, though he was glad to greet familiar 
faces once more, Thekla had the first place 
in his thoughts, and we drove on quickly 
until we stopped before the door of a hand- 
some country-house: we had reached our 
journey’s end. The old servant who opened 
the door for us recognized my companion 
immediately, but the smile with which he 
greeted him changed quickly to a look of 


CONCLUSION. 


205 


sadness; over the joyous countenance of 
Colonel Erhardt, too, there fell a shadow as 
silently he shook hands with the old man. 
Then he said, 

‘‘ How is your young mistress, Franz? Is 
she well ?'* 

‘‘Very well in body, sir,’’ he answered, 
with a sigh. “ I hope your coming, sir, will 
cheer her up?” 

“ Where will I find her ? In her room ? 
Wait, Franz; stay here: I will announce 
myself. — Come, Miss Leonie.” He took my 
hand and led me up the broad stone steps. 
I thought it so kind in him not to forget 
me in the moment of his happiness. 

As I came into the wide hall adorned 
with antlers, the description I had received 
came back to me. How like it all now ap- 
peared ! 

Silently I followed my guide through sev- 
eral rooms. At last we stood before a large 
18 


206 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


heavy door ; pushing it open noiselessly^ we 
entered a beautiful room. My first glance 
fell on a lovely girl dressed in mourning; 
she was sitting by the window, and the set- 
ting sun threw its beams upon her, bringing 
out every lineament of that sweet face. I 
recognized her at first sight: in her looks 
and manner she was like her brother; but 

m 

the joyousness of which I had heard so much 
was all gone now. Her cheeks had lost their 
bright color, her eyes showed she had been 
weeping, and the mouth had a very sorrow- 
ful droop. 

She had not heard the quiet opening of 
the door, and for a minute we watched her 
in silence. Then my companion stepped for- 
ward and called her name softly. She turned 
with a cry of joy, and in an instant was in 
his arms. 

It was certainly excusable that in the first 
joy of meeting everything else should be 


CONCLUSION. 


207 


forgotten. I leaned against a high chair 
and with a beating heart waited for them 
to speak to me. 

Suddenly Thekla turned and saw me. 

** But, Karl,'* she cried, ** who is this young 
lady? Oh, I know: it must be my poor 
dear Leonie;" and she ran over to me and 
clasped me in her arms. How dear she has 
been to me ever since that minute ! Our 
hearts were united then by a bond that 
has never loosened. 

It was long before I regained my wont- 
ed strength and elasticity. Not only Thekla, 
but the whole household, treated me with 
such tenderness and attention that at times 
I forgot the bitter experiences of the past. 
Their efforts were gradually rewarded, for 
my strength began to revive and my spirits 
to return. In Thekla I found a true friend. 
She understood my grief; she sympathized 
with me. Certainly sorrow loses its sharp- 


208 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


est sting when one can share it with an- 
other. 

Three months after my coming Thekla 
was married. Her husband left the army 
and devoted himself to the care of his es- 
tates. Both treated me as one of them- 
selves; I felt perfectly at home with them. 

As I became stronger I begged, as a spe- 
cial favor, to be allowed to visit a hospital in 
the town. Here were still to be seen traces 
of the war. At first the physicians objected, 
on account of my youth, but, to my grati- 
fication, they consented to try me. 

Thekla often scolded me gently when I 
went home tired and worn out; but I told 
her in reply that as it was her duty to oc- 
cupy herself with her house, so was it mine 
to devote myself to the work to which God 
had called. And when I assured her that 
I thought myself happy to be able to speak 
words of comfort to the sick and the dying, 


CONCLUSION. 


209 


then she pressed me to her heart and accom- 
panied me now and then — to share with me, 
she said, the joy of doing good. 

But one day I told her my intention, when 
I grew older, to be a regular nurse. How 
she objected to it! and her husband also 
told me I must never think of such a thing. 
I kept silent after that, but was none the less 
determined, if opportunity offered, to carry 
out my purpose. 

So passed a year. Thekla was now the 
happy mother of a darling boy, but before 
the new-comer was more than a month old, 
Thekla herself was taken very ill. For a 
time we feared we must lose her, but the 
Lord heard our prayers and spared our dear 
one to us. I had, of course, given up my 
visits to the hospital while I was needed at 
home ; and, as the young mother's recovery 
was very slow, the little Karl demanded more 

and more of my attention. He grew very 
18 * 0 


210 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


‘fast, and soon learned to know me and to 
smile at my coming. 

I had been made happy, too, by two let- 
ters from my old home. One was from 
Pere Fontaine. The old priest wrote very 
kindly, deeply lamenting the change the war 
had made in our little village. He told me 
that the ruins had been already cleared away 
and that new houses were going up, but that 
he did not expect to live to see all the traces 
of that sad struggle wiped away. His pre- 
sentiment was fulfilled: a month later he 
died, deeply regretted by the people among 
whom he had lived. 

The other letter was from Stephen. He 
had, as we knew, been living with sorrie rel- 
atives of his mother, and had been studying 
hard. How glad I was to learn that he had 
taken Jesus for his Master and promised to 
devote his life to his Lord's service ! He 
had given up his first purpose — that of being 


CONCLUSION. 


2II 


a lawyer — ^and had begun the study of medi- 
cine, in order, as he said, to be able to help 
the poor and the sick. He wrote me, too, 
that his uncle had begun to rebuild on the 
ruins of my old home for me; but my joy 
over his conversion was too great to allow 
me to think of anything else. 

One year after another slipped away. Lit- 
tle Karl had become the darling of the whole 
house ; he not only grew in stature, but his 
intellect developed wonderfully. How proud 
I was to hear him call me his ‘‘best Aunt 
Leonie ” ! 

My life now, in comparison with my early 
days, passed in quiet, untroubled joy, and I 
would have almost forgotten my old home 
if it had not been for the correspondence 
which I had kept up with Stephen all these 
years. He had made great progress in his 
studies, and passed a brilliant examination. 

Six years had elapsed since the close of 


212 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


the war, when Colonel Erhardt received a 
note from Stephen’s uncle begging him to 
go to my native village and consult with him 
about the disposition of my property. How 
homesick I felt when he left! I S(3 longed 
to go with him and see my dear old home ! 
It was the first time I had ever felt a desire 
to go back. But it was too late in the year 
to travel comfortably ; and, as Thekla and I 
were promised we should both go the next 
summer, I was obliged to be content. 

He was gone but eight days, and returned 
accompanied, to our great surprise and pleas- 
ure, by Stephen. What a meeting after so 
many years ! The first sight of him brought 
back all the sad memories, but joy soon tri- 
umphed, and his stay with us was a time 
of unalloyed happiness. He was no longer 
the careless, impetuous boy, but a grave, 
earnest young man. Those days of trial 
had given him a strength of character which 


CONCLUSION. 


213 


Otherwise he might have lacked. He told 
me that Dr. Duprat, on account of his age, 
was intending to give up practice and wished 
Stephen to take his place ; so he had bought 
a house in the village and intended to com- 
mence practising on his return. 

‘‘It is a lovely house, Leonie,*' he said, 
with an odd smile on his face. “ It is built 
after the style of our old home, and the ar- 
rangement of the interior is wonderfully like 
it, too.’’ 

Perhaps he saw the shadow his words 
caused, for he stopped suddenly and began 
to talk of other things. He stayed a week 
with us — a. week full of happy hours — and I 
felt a void in my life when he was gone. 

The winter and spring passed uneventfully. 
My longing to see my old home was stronger 
than ever, and, as the time passed and sum- 
mer drew near, I felt as if I could not wait. 
At last the longed-for day arrived. Early in 


214 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


the morning we took our way to the station. 
Little Karl was delighted at this his first 
journey into the wide world, and his expres- 
sions of astonishment as he saw the houses, 
trees and fields fly past him were very 
amusing. 

How my heart throbbed with expectation 
as I realized that I was really on my way to 
my old home! We stayed all night at 
Strasburg, where thousands were busy with 
the repairs and enlarging of the fort. The 
next morning we started again, and in the 
afternoon reached Belfort, where we left the 
cars and took a carriage for the rest of the 
journey. 

Little Karl was the only merry one of the 
party, we elders looking sadly out over the 
scenery. I pointed out to Thekla the spot 
where her brother had been shot, and cov- 
ered my face with my hands to hide the tears, 
while hers flowed without restraint Soon 


CONCLUSION. 


215 


we drove over the Arle bridge, and in half 
an hour more the little village lay at our * 
feet. 

I was rather curious as to where we were go- 
ing to stay. I looked at Colonel Erhardt, but 
he only smiled and bade the driver turn into 
the street that led to where my old home used 
to stand. My heart beat quickly; I longed yet 
dreaded to see the ruins of the place where I 
had been so happy and met so much trouble. 
Absorbed in these thoughts, I did not notice 
the many new buildings that had gone up in 
the village. 

At last the horses stopped; but what a 
sight presented itself before my astonished 
eyes ! Instead of the desolation I had left 
rose a magnificent building after the style of 
the old castle. The gates opened silently 
and mysteriously at our approach, and we 
entered a large courtyard. The old fountain 
played once more, its water glistening in the 


2i6 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


sun, and hid from me at first some one who 
was standing behind it, until I heard a voice 
say, 

** Welcome, Mademoiselle Leonie, to your 
new home!'’ 

I immediately recognized Dr. Duprat, and 
behind him I saw Stephen's happy face. It 
seemed to me I was in a dream from which 
I would soon waken. 

They led me into the house — I hardly 
know how — and after a while, when alone 
with Thekla, I begged her for an expla- 
nation. 

** Why, Leonie," she said, ** you are to 
look upon this house as a slight payment 
for a great debt, and as the thank-offering of 
a loving friend for the sacrificing love you 
showed in those dreadful days to my hus- 
band and brother. This is your own, free of 
all encumbrance, and I hear your father's 
property is large; so you will be able to 


CONCLUSION. 


217 


live a life free from care. My only fear is 
that you will slip away from us, for Ste- 
phen — 

A knock at the door interrupted us, and I 
ran away to hide my blushing face and to 
think over what I had just heard. What 
had I done to deserve such goodness ? 
Nothing. It was their love for me that had 
magnified my little acts of common humanity ; 
and I remembered it was God who had put 
it into their hearts to be so good to me, and 
resolved that my future life should show my 
gratitude to him and to them. 

More than three years have passed since 
that day when I first crossed the threshold 
of my new home. Two years ago I came 
here for the second time, to spend, if the 
Lord will, my days in my native land. We 
did not make a long stay that first time, and 
when we went back Stephen went with us. 

We were married in Thekla’s home, and our 
19 


2I8 


LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. 


life since has been very happy. My little 
Thekla, who is just a year old to-day, makes 
sweet music in our home. 

Our friends in Germany write often, and 
have promised to make us a visit next month. 
My husband — the only physician in the 
neighborhood — has a very large practice, and 
has many opportunities of seeing life on its 
dark side. I often accompany him to the 
cottages of the poor and the sick, where my 
basket is always welcome ; and I try to talk 
of Jesus to the people, but they are so igno- 
ant and superstitious that only now and then 
is a heart opened to listen. However, I con- 
tinue to sow and to plant in the hope that 
in heaven I may find unexpected fruit. 

My story is ended. I have tried to show 
how, out of darkness and through darkness, 
light came into my soul. I would not at 
any price exchange my thorny way, bright- 


CONCLUSION. 


219 


ened by this light, for the pleasant path that 
is lighted only by earthly happiness. On 
this path I learned to know Jesus; to him 
alone belongs my praise, my worship, who 
healed the broken heart of my mother, who 
led my father into the clear, cloudless light 
of his presence, who showed himself to Bar- 
bara as the Good Shepherd of his flock. 

Yes, I praise him who has led me and 
mine to himself, and, whatever the future 
may bring, he will never leave us until he 
calls us to himself, where all tears shall be 
wiped away. To him be the honor, the glory 
and the adoration. Amen ! 


THE END. 






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